The Fears of Tomorrow
by Crow's Talon
Summary: In a world where humans and comic characters live together, it's 1954 and times are changing. Comic book actor and professional supervillain Jonathan Crane finds himself overshadowed by newer, modern fears, and works to save his career in the face of the atomic bomb. To make matters worse, a new and sinister threat comes to the world of comics: censorship. Historical AU. Satire.
1. Prologue: October 4, 1941

_**Disclaimer: I don't own anything, they belong to their rightful owners. This is an AU mostly set in 1950s Los Angeles during the Cold War, with nods to both comic book history and American history. There is also satirical treatment of the infamous 1954 Comics Code Authority, a very real thing which led to the censorship of comic books and the closure of many crime and horror-themed titles. **_

* * *

_**The Fears of Tomorrow (Or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Comics Code) **_

_Let me have men about me that are fat;_  
_Sleek-headed men and such as sleep o' nights:_  
_Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look;_  
_He thinks too much: such men are dangerous._

_- _William Shakespeare_, Julius Caesar_

******Prologue: October 4, 1941, Los Angeles**

When the newcomer arrived at the studio, the first to notice was the night guard, Roger MacGuire. Roger, a fresh-faced, red-haired young man from San Diego, was new to the job and hadn't quite learned to avoid falling asleep while on duty yet. He wasn't completely sleeping, but didn't notice that he wasn't alone, either. The stranger, seizing an opportunity, crept up behind him with surprising stealth and touched him lightly on the shoulder.

Roger woke up with a scream and a curse. Whirling around to face his opponent, he brandished his flashlight like a club. The man licked his thin lips. "Get away, you! One step closer and I'll hit you. Don't think I won't."

"What a greeting." The guy seemed remarkably fine with having a light shone in his face. "I just did you a favor. Your boss wouldn't like to see you sleeping on the job."

With a few exceptions, Roger couldn't tell much about the visitor. The rail-thin man sported tweed clothes that were ratty, covered in a thin coat of dust and dirt. A dented brown fedora dangled from one bony hand and his black hair seemed to melt into the darkness. The light reflected off of his glasses, almost completely cloaking his eyes. He was fairly young, from the looks of him, only a few years older than Roger.

"Mister, you are aware that you're trespassing on studio property. I'm sorry, but I have to ask you to leave."

"Leave?" The stranger smiled, putting on his hat in one fluid movement, and a chill ran up Roger's backbone. "_Leave_? Why should I do that? I've come a long way to get here."

"I don't want to call the police, mister, and I'll give you a fair chance. If it's money you want, I don't have it. If you're some sort of creepy prowler, I've got a weapon and I'm not afraid to use it."

"I seriously doubt you're stupid enough to use that thing on me." The man knelt beside Roger, who backed away a little while still holding his flashlight. "I'm not looking for money. At least not now."

Roger was dumbfounded and more than a little scared. "What do you want? You after something?" His flashlight illuminated a brown, weather-beaten leather suitcase. "Look, I'm just doin' my job here, I'm the night watch."

The stranger snapped his fingers. "Job. That's it. I'll tell you why I'm here. I'm looking for work." Roger stared, white as a sheet. "I need to speak to whoever's in charge at the studio. One of the directors, the producer, your boss. Someone with the authority to hire me."

Roger staggered back a little, falling against the ground. "You're looking for a job at the studio. You're one of them."

Far from surprised, the stranger laughed. "Took you this long to figure it out, eh? Yes, I'm searching for comic work. Would've thought you'd be used to us by now." He stood up again, pulling a piece of paper out of his coat's breast pocket. "Tell me where to go and you'll be rid of me."

"I'm used to them, sure, but I'm not used to you. You're something else." Roger staggered to his feet, still wielding his flashlight. "You _scare_ me."

The stranger lowered his tattered hat, his blue eyes seeming to glow in the dark. "Well, yes. That _is_ the point."

Trying to hold back his fear and noticing how the man seemed to enjoy, no, relish it, Roger found the strength to say, "Something's wrong with you, mister. Don't take it personal, but something's deeply wrong with you."

Another laugh. "You're not the first to say that. Lend me that light of yours for a moment." Reasoning that he'd already be dead if the intruder meant him real harm, Roger reluctantly handed over the flashlight, squinting as the stranger showed the newspaper clipping from his pocket, one part underlined in black ink between half of an advertisement for Coca-Cola and a call to join the Navy.

"**SUPERVILLAINS NEEDED – CURRENTLY HIRING. REASONABLE WAGES AND FAIR HOURS. COME TO 119 COLUMBUS AVENUE. BRING YOUR OWN COSTUME AND NAME**. **AUDITIONS REQUIRED. PRIOR EXPERIENCE OPTIONAL**."

_Well, that explains a lot_, Roger thought. He hadn't thought the guy had come to sign up for the Navy. A bit too lean around the waist for that. "If you're looking for directions, I'll give 'em to you. The studio's just a little further to the east. Just get away from me. I think they're still open. Not doing any filming, though. Just leave. Please."

"Oh, hiring's good enough for me tonight. Thank you for your help, sir." The stranger tipped his hat, threw Roger the flashlight, and vanished into the darkness carrying his suitcase. Roger watched the guy go and sighed with relief, body loosening. Good riddance. He partly hoped the studio took him in, if only so the rest of the night watch could keep an eye on him and Roger could rest a little easier.

"Why the hell you couldn't find your own way, I don't know," he called out. "Were you messing with me? Were you?" There was no answer, but Roger knew what the stranger would've said if he had still been there. "Aw, what the hell. The studio people can deal with you, whatever-your-name-is." As for him, that little experience had confirmed his suspicions that he needed a drink at the local bar after his shift was done in another hour. That, and he now had an incentive to stay awake, even if he had to pry his eyelids open with his fingers.

He had never liked the comic-book people, and now, even though they were useful to a point, he was reminded why. At best, they were creepy. At worst, they were the stuff nightmares were made of. He had little doubt, given how scary the guy he'd just met was, that the studio would find a new supervillain soon enough.

Just his luck.

* * *

When the stranger began knocking on the door, one of the people lounging at the entrance, a trained actor named Basil Karlo, stage name Clayface, decided to go and let whoever was on the other side in. It was a little late for visitors, but it was only ten in the evening and the studio was still open. He was an older man, white-haired and in his fifties, but he was powerfully built and needed no help. He turned the handle and the disheveled figure outside slunk in, a hat in his right hand and a beaten old leather suitcase in his left. He wore a brown coat and vest, both of which had apparently seen better days. He stood to his full, six-foot height, blue eyes challenging. To his surprise and clear outrage, the other actors burst out laughing, including Karlo.

"What's so funny?" he spat, furious. "You aren't supposed to be laughing. Not at me!"

"Where ya from, the shantytown?" sneered a young extra, clapping sarcastically.

He quickly realized that they were referring to his clothes. This only made him more angry. "I'm not homeless! And stop laughing! Do you know who I am?" Of course they didn't. Not yet.

"Sure, you're just 'transitioning'," smirked Karlo, shutting the door. "That's what they all tell themselves. Now, what do you want?"

Trying to smooth his bruised ego, the skinny newcomer wheeled to face the actor. "To be one of you. I came here to learn how to work in comics." Karlo stared at him for a moment before laughing again, joined by half the cast. The stranger pulled his coat a little closer, eyes narrowed. "This isn't supposed to be how it works. You're supposed to be afraid of me."

"Yeah, and I'm the mayor of New York," another extra jeered. "What's your name, then? If you're planning on sticking around, there's no harm in sharing." The stranger put away his suitcase, shoving it under a chair. "Judging from your voice, you're from out of town. Where ya from?"

"Georgia. A place called Arlen. Heard of it?" The other actors stared blankly. "I thought so. I don't exactly advertise it. Take it from me, the place isn't worth visiting."

"Georgia?" Despite his mockery of the stranger's clothes, Karlo couldn't help but be impressed. "You've come a long way to get here."

The stranger nodded. "Yes. Longest train ride of my life. I hope moving is worth it. If you're anything to go by, I'm not impressed."

One of the actors, an older man who was lean and balding, got up from a wooden chair, offering a hand to the newcomer. "Oh, come on. They're just pulling your leg. Welcome to our studio. We can always use new trainees. What's your name, friend? The name's Karl Hellfern, stage name Dr. Death."

"Dr. Death? Stage name?" The stranger realized what Helfern meant. "Ah, you mean my supervillain alias. I've got one already."

"The Homeless Wonder?" jeered Karlo.

"The Hobo of Doom?" a blond extra suggested with a smirk.

"No! Just allow me a second to get my costume. The suitcase is old and rusty and it sticks." He stooped, trying to open it, looking back to Helfern. "My name's Jonathan. Jonathan Crane." With help from Karlo he finally managed to force the case open, revealing a ragged brown mess of burlap, complete with a straw hat. "My stage name's Scarecrow."

"How original," remarked an extra in a blue business suit sarcastically. "How long did it take you to choose that name?"

Crane pulled out the sad-looking costume, a real scarecrow with most of the straw removed ahead of time. It looked as if he'd just uprooted it from a field back home. His haughty attitude covered up real alarm. This was not how things were supposed to go. If Karlo and Hellfern had followed his plan, they should be quivering in terror by now. But they weren't, and he was at a loss as to what to do. As an adult, he'd never met someone he couldn't intimidate.

"What a cheap costume." Karlo and a dark-haired actress in a green dress and dark gray cat mask burst out laughing. "You didn't even cut out eye holes. Couldn't afford anything better?" Crane had to restrain himself from lashing out at the two. If there was one thing he couldn't stand, it was being seen as a joke. He consoled himself with the knowledge that, after seeing him in action, they wouldn't be laughing anymore.

"Where do I go to sign up? Is there someone I have to see?" No good staying here with this pack of snobs. Crane put the costume away again, checking to make sure it wasn't caught.

"Our director is away at the moment, but there's a secretary who'll fill out a form for you. The best of luck to you, Mister Crane." Karlo bowed his head a little, this time sincere. "We've only got a few named supervillains on our crew – there's me, Hellfern, Selina Kyle, Monk, Zucco, Hugo Strange, and Joker. With you, assuming you get in, that makes eight of us. You don't look too promising, sure, but maybe you're better than I think."

"I say we give him a chance," remarked Kyle, leaning on the chair and playing with a cigarette. "I've heard of weirder."

"Thank you, cat lady," snapped Crane. "Well, see you all during filming. And thanks for nothing." He stopped. "If I do get the nod, what happens next?"

"Well," Kyle explained, "you'll stay here in the studio for a few days at least. You'll get a roommate, although that's open to change if we get more people to join us. If you're lucky, you'll get a mentor. They'll probably let you help out on a comic to see if you've got the stuff to be a keeper."

"A roommate. That's just wonderful. Well, I'll be off, then." Crane took off his fedora, shooting Karlo a glare. "And I'll teach you to laugh at me."

"Oh, I'm scared stiff," sneered the older actor.

"You will be," Crane hissed in a voice that would have unnerved Karlo if the actor hadn't seen him as a joke. "Oh, you will be. Mark my words." Head held high and pushing back his glasses, he left the room with a strut.

Kyle exchanged looks with Hellfern. "What a strange person. But as I said, it's only fair to give him a shot. Besides, how scary can a skinny guy in a cheap costume be?"

* * *

Fortunately for Selina Kyle, Jonathan Crane wasn't particularly in the mood to hear her talking about him behind his back. Instead, he went right to the secretary and asked for a sheet of paper. Like the actors, the fellow took it in stride, not in the least bit scared. That would have to change.

"Why do you ask, sir?"

Crane answered quickly. "I read in the paper that this studio is hiring new villains. I'm here to sign up." He flashed the clipping again. "Looking for work."

"I see. I'll need to ask you a few questions, sir," the secretary replied, his face bored behind his glasses. "Name?"

"Jonathan Crane."

"Have you come up with a supervillain alias yet?"

"Yes. Scarecrow."

"Interesting choice. Age?"

"Twenty-one."

"Place of birth? State and city, please, assuming you're a US citizen."

"Georgia. Arlen, a little backwoods town that probably isn't on the map. Don't bother looking."

The secretary wrote down the answers, moving on to another sheet. "Any previous employment? If so, where?"

"None. This would be my first paid job."

"Thought so." Crane was offended, but had come too far to risk messing up now. He took a deep breath to calm himself down. "Now, one last thing. Are there any figures you look up to? Inspirations?"

"Well," Crane answered slowly, "for the people who work here, I admire the work of Gerard Shugel, the Ultra-Humanite, and Hugo Strange has also been an idol of mine. My chief inspiration, however, has always been the dark masters. Went to see _Freaks _in the theaters when I was a little boy. Secretly, of course. My… guardian wouldn't have approved."

The secretary was genuinely surprised, raising his eyebrows. "Guardian? You have a family?"

He seemed reluctant to answer, swallowing. "Yes. A great-grandmother, Mary Keeny, but please don't contact her, I beg you." He cringed as he said the name. Bad memories. He didn't want to think about that old hag here, not during his moment of triumph. "And a half-sister, but we don't speak much, probably because she's too young to talk. My parents won't bother to reply."

"If it means such a big deal to you, we won't. You're a legal adult, right?" The secretary folded the sheets away, putting them in a folder. He handed the newcomer a slip of paper. "All right, then, Mr. Crane, you're sharing a room with Basil Karlo in number three down the corridor. Look lively, you'll get used to him."

"I just hope my first show is worth it," Crane snapped, heading to Room Three, slightly less enthusiastic than he had been on entering the studio. "They didn't mention this in the newspapers we got back home."

* * *

"Cut!"

"Good work for a newcomer, Mr. Crane." The director picked up his copy of the script. "You sure you've never taken film studies before, mister?"

Crane casually stepped out from behind bars, handing over his own copy and positively giddy. He bowed to the applause of the film crew and his fellow actors, all but three extras who sat terrified in the corner.

"Well, I'll be," remarked Karlo, genuinely impressed. "For such a tatty dresser, he's actually pretty good. Intense, too. Learned those lines in less than a day."

"Just ask Kendrick and Herold! They look scared out of their wits. I think we have ourselves a keeper." Herold, a venerable-looking old man who was cowering against the wall, gave a nervous thumbs-up.

"It's just as well we got the classroom scene done in about three shots. I was wondering how many vases we'd have to let Crane shoot up. These things are antiques. They ain't cheap." The propman held up a bag containing the mess. "Thank goodness you taught him to shoot straight."

"At the very least, we don't have to buy any more new ones," joked Karlo, helping to clean up the set.

Crane smirked, gesturing to the pistol lying within reach on a small wooden table. "That was my favorite part."

"We figured as much." Karlo smiled, leading him aside. "Well, if you're gonna be stayin' with us, we may as well give you a proper reception. There's a bar for our people in town, and it's our tradition to buy food and a drink for all new keepers. From the look on your face you've never had a taste of alcohol before." He nudged Crane in the side. "And I'd say you need a little meat on those bones, eh? I'll introduce you to the crew. You know Dick Grayson and Bruce Wayne already. My stage name's Clayface. Selina's Catwoman."

"And you said my name was unoriginal, Miss Kyle," Crane snapped. "And for your information, Mr. Karlo, I'm naturally thin."

"Wait." Herold sat up in his corner, eyes wide. "You mean that crazy guy's coming back? This wasn't a one-time thing?"

"Worse," replied Kendrick, a somewhat younger man in a blue coat. He scratched his dark hair. "He's staying here at the studio. With us."

"Lord!" moaned Herold, banging his head against the wall in the process.

"Show the man some respect," the third extra, a balding man in an orange coat, hissed. "He's part of the film crew now. He's intense, sure, but he's terrifyingly good."

"Dodge, the guy's a creep," Kendrick remarked, whispering in the other man's ear so that the person they were talking about wouldn't overhear them. Even knowing their new coworker as briefly as they did, he understood that making Jonathan Crane angry was not a good idea. "No offense. He is. We were stupid to make fun of him earlier. Stupid. Probably went a little harder on us because of that. To be perfectly blunt with you, _I don't like him_."

"Look on the bright side, Paul," Dodge told Herold, passing the older actor his hat. "He already killed you this issue, so you won't have to work with him again."

Herold sighed, grabbing his coat, a sleek green affair, and getting up to go. "Thank God. Never thought I'd be so happy to be dead."

The trio of extras watched Karlo lead Crane out, talking about buying the newcomer some whiskey to help him feel welcome at the studio. Dodge, probably for the good of his terrified coworkers, offered Herold and Kendrick a cola bottle each at a nearby drinks stand. They accepted without a moment's hesitation.

"Here's to you, Mister Crane," added Frank Kendrick with a half-smile. "And God help anyone who has to work with you."


	2. There's No Business Like Show Business

**There's No Business Like Show Business**

_There is a certain relief in change, even though it be from bad to worse!_

**- **Washington Irving, _Tales of a Traveller_

* * *

**Thirteen Years Later - March 7, 1954**

The annual Cross-Studio Festival on March 7 was an almost sacred event, at least to the comic-book actors it centered around. The studios emptied that day, stars and extras alike coming together on the green a few miles away to share old stories and meet new people. It was easily the most important event to them. To not come was unheard of. To claim to be too tired, even more so. But Jonathan Crane was not known for his social skills.

"C'mon, Jonny!" Basil Karlo perched beside the other actor's bed, trying to wake him up. Crane wasn't asleep, one ice-blue eye open and focused on the pest. The fact that he was fully dressed should have tipped Basil off. "Wake up, will you? It's my job to show you to the festival."

"I hate parties," Jonathan spat, holding the sheets a little closer. "I'm not in the mood. Let me have a nap, for heaven's sake."

Basil faked disappointment. "Aw, don't be like that. You're never in the mood. Why, the Cross-Studio Festival is fun. I remember my first one. Meeting all those new faces made me feel prehistoric!"

"That's the last thing I need. I already feel like a dinosaur. That's what happens if no one hires you for ten years."

"Don't be such a downer. If you come, I'll walk with you to the antique book shop down the street. I'll even buy one for your collection," Basil wheedled. Being the roommate of Jonathan Crane for thirteen years had its advantages. Now he knew all the younger actor's weak spots. Judging from the first editions, autographed copies, and varied other rare books that littered their shared room, Jonathan's love of reading was a big one. Sure enough, a second cold eye flickered open. "Your choice."

Jonathan pushed himself upright on one arm, excited. "Is that a promise, Karlo? I'll hold you to it." Basil nodded, helping his roommate to his feet. Jonathan immediately started cleaning up for the event while the other actor sat on a chair and watched.

"You wearing those clothes?" Basil asked, not unkindly. Never one for fancy dress, Jonathan had outdone himself this time. The older man swore he could see sewn-up holes in that shabby tweed coat. Besides being about twenty years out of fashion, they weren't even in good condition. "If you turn up in those, you'll be a laughingstock."

"I like these clothes," Jonathan replied tersely. "They're fine. If people laugh at me, I'll fix that quickly enough."

"I'm just sayin', if you just bought a few clean sets of clothes, all your problems with being taken seriously would be over. They might even hire you for another comic," Basil told him, teasing, as his roommate's eyes narrowed slightly.

Jonathan shoved the suitcase containing his costume under the bed. "That was low, Basil Karlo. Just low. Uncalled for, even. After the party, I'll ask the director if I can have a mentor." Thirteen years, and he looked much the same, maybe a little more tired and jaded. It was the world around him that had changed. As he told Basil, he didn't understand how, just that as new people came into the studio he was cast aside. One last job in 1943 and that was it. He got a weekly salary, of course, but it didn't feel the same. The older actors got used to it, eventually, but it made Crane edgy and bored. "The way I dress has nothing to do with it."

"I'm sure that's it. Now, are you coming or not?" Karlo feigned a yawn. He'd made enough jabs at his roommate's lousy clothes that they weren't taken as harshly as they could be. If he hadn't known better, he'd have thought Crane was developing a sense of humor that didn't involve scaring the wits out of hapless coworkers.

Just a matter of days after Jonathan was recruited to the film crew, Selina Kyle complained that someone had put a hairy brown spider in her dressing room. No names were named, but everyone knew who'd done it. Crane seemed to prefer targeting people who made fun of him on his first day at work, presumably as a "friendly" incentive to show a little more respect. He wasn't above greeting newcomers in his inimitable style, either.

Despite their initial antagonism, Jonathan had never done anything to Basil Karlo, probably as thanks for the brandy and meal that the film crew had provided him with in town. Wherever he'd come from, Jonathan clearly wasn't used to having a full stomach. He'd devoured any food given to him like a starving man. The guy had a quick temper, but wasn't beyond gratitude, and his skill had impressed the older actor fast. They'd also found common ground once Basil revealed that he'd once been in pictures and had mingled with celebrated horror stars of the day, including several of Jonathan's heroes. They weren't quite friends, but as close as they could come, and in thirteen years they had only grown closer.

"It'll be fun," Basil reassured Jonathan. "Come on."

Jonathan, however, was less than reassured. "It'll be _fun,_ he said. Famous last words." But Basil had won, and both of them knew it. "Well, what are we waiting for? Better to get it done with quickly."

"That's the spirit!"

"Sometimes," Jonathan told Basil, "I ask myself why I bother to listen to you. I must be crazy." He opened the door to his closet. "Anything I need? Costume?"

"No siree, just your own good self. It's a casual, come-as-you-are kind of thing. Only reason I brought up your clothes is that they look like they're falling apart. Bet you a fiver they'll be tatters by this time next month."

Jonathan's eye glinted slyly. "Is that a wager, Karlo? You know I hate betting. I wouldn't do it unless I was absolutely sure that the odds were in my favor."

Crane usually didn't give warnings without a reason for them. He wasn't the strongest or sturdiest actor at the studio, but he was one of the sneakiest. The night watchmen hated him, since he had an unfortunate habit of creeping behind them to wake them up, seemingly for sheer entertainment. He'd tried the same stunt on a few coworkers, but learned his lesson when he had ambushed Waylon Jones, a hulking, reptilian creature with the stage name Killer Croc, and had only just fast-talked himself out of a pounding. Now he stuck to targeting people roughly his size and bulk. Selina was a favorite target – while she didn't scare easily and was used to it by now, he was still angry at her for teasing him. Basil wouldn't put it past him to make sure that he had an advantage in their bet.

"I'd rather not," he finally said, and Crane nodded, seemingly not disappointed.

"That's a smart choice. These clothes have seen a lot. I think they'll last me a while yet." He grabbed his hat from the closet and put it on, covering most of his hair. "Not saying I don't want new clothes. My private library merely takes priority. You wouldn't believe how many antique stores and bookshops I had to prowl to find this many books. Bargaining, trading, haggling. Gives me something to do. Most of my paycheck goes to books, the rest to necessities and food. But if you want me to have clothes, you'll have to be the one to buy them."

"It's interesting that you read comics yourself," Karlo commented, indicating a stack of books. "_Tales from the Crypt_. Never read it, but this looks grotesque."

"That," Crane told him grandly, "is the pride of my library. Every issue of_ Tales from the Crypt_ is in those piles. Didn't miss a one. There's a store close by that sells it. I enjoy taking one out to read on a dark night. Delightfully macabre. Got a few copies of _Vault of Horror,_ too."

Karlo knew that Jonathan's taste in the arts was, for lack of a better word, _interesting_. Anything that dealt with disgusting monsters, insanity, or people dying in horrible, undeserved ways was fair game. He knew better than to take out one of those books, even if Crane hadn't been so possessive of them.

His own books were the usual kind, mostly old scripts from movies he'd worked on long ago, some for people like him in particular. His personal favorite book was _How To Find Your Inner Psychopath_ by Tony Zucco. He'd offered to lend it to Crane not long after the thin man had permanently joined the film crew, noting the newcomer's soft spot for reading, but the offer was turned down. Jonathan felt confident enough in his own ability after his first performance. Then again, Jonathan already seemed to be more-or-less in tune with his inner psychopath.

"Well, uh, I can't disagree." Karlo was never able to understand why Jonathan was so fond of those horrible, disgusting magazines. It was more than a guilty pleasure for him. He loved them. Crane was known to visit local comic stands to add to his collection, and was unexpectedly popular with the people who worked there as a loyal customer. "All ready to go? We don't have all day."

Crane tipped his hat slightly, finding his glasses on a shelf. "Better be off, then."

"We should find the old gang first. Harvey, Eddie, y'know, the whole crew." They were a close-knit group, the old guard of the studio: Karlo, Crane, Eddie Nygma, and Harvey Dent. These four were practically neighbors, Harvey sharing a room with Eddie until he was able to afford his own apartment in town.

Basil was able to round up Dent and Nygma quickly enough. They were already dressed for the party. The two got along surprisingly well. Harvey Dent was more serious than most of the group, although more amiable than certain others. He had the ability to change half of his face into a puffy, disfigured mess, which made a good party trick and gave him his stage alias, Two-Face. The fact that this weird skill was inherent saved the prop department a lot of money on makeup. Luckily, Dent respected his costars enough to warn them when he was about to disfigure himself.

Eddie Nygma, on the other hand, was a quirky young redhead who loved telling cheesy jokes, making friendly jabs at people, and entertaining the rest of the film crew. He was charismatic, entertaining, and funny. It was impossible not to like him. People even called him "The Riddler" off set. Rumor had it that he'd been trained under the Joker himself, but frankly Basil found Eddie's style of humor much more genuinely amusing. As one of the A-listers, as they were called, Joker was more-or-less unapproachable. The B and C-listers, on the other hand, had formed a small, slightly dysfunctional family.

Harvey was the unofficial leader, although Karlo was technically the oldest. Eddie was the perky, mildly irritating little brother. Jonathan was the aloof older one, although he didn't care what they considered him. Jonathan didn't care about much of anything, come to think of it. The only things which seemed to provoke some emotion in him were spooking people for fun, watching horror movies on television, and collecting more books.

Part of Basil wished he'd pawn off some of those books and buy an apartment. It would be a better arrangement for both of them. Basil was tired of those creepy magazines filling up valuable space, and Crane liked to stay up late and watch scary movies on their television. If the other actor had to try and sleep through one more night of _The Wolf Man_ or _House of Wax_ he'd go insane. Occasionally Crane would force him to sit through a movie that he especially liked, such as _M_ or _Vampyr_. Karlo enjoyed horror movies, and had starred in a few silent movies way back before comic books were invented, but didn't like being kept up by them. Sometimes the skinny actor seemed to forget that their room was shared.

"What are you guys going to do at the festival?" Eddie asked cheerfully. "I'll be winning big at the ring toss, with a bag of popcorn and some soda to get me through the day. You, Bas?"

"I'll be wandering around, seeing some of the folks who come to visit. A lot of new faces came in with the war. It's been hard to keep track of everyone!" For an actor as old and experienced as Basil Karlo, it was amazing to see how far things had come since his days of silent cinema.

"And as for me, I'll be doing some of the games. I hear there'll be clay pigeon shooting." Harvey was very competitive when it came to fairground games, as most of the actors knew from previous Cross-Studio Festivals. He made it a personal goal not to leave without a cash prize.

"And you, Jonathan?" Eddie asked, nudging the last actor on the shoulder. "What'll you do at the fair?"

"Buy a hot dog and some cola for my supper and watch you three make fools out of yourselves. It'll be worth the ticket price - dinner and a show."

"Sociable type, ain't you?" replied Eddie, only a little discouraged. "At least try the clay pigeon competition. You're a good shot. You could win."

Jonathan shrugged. "I hate sports."

"You hate a lot of things," Karlo joked. "You hate sports, you hate parties, you hate betting. What don't you hate?"

"Messing with you three. Teasing Selina. That kind of thing." Crane looked around to see if anyone would join them. "Who else will be coming with us? Admittedly, the 'meet new people' aspect of this stupid event does appeal."

"Oh, plenty of our newer employees. The more, erm, colorful ones. There's Jervis the Mad Hatter – fun to be around, but a complete loon, from what I've heard of him. His friends the Tweeds are coming, too – they're cousins and roommates. They insisted. Strange, strange people." Eddie made the "cuckoo" sign. "And then there's Paul Dekker. Crazy Quilt. God, the man can't wear proper clothes to save his life."

"I remember him," said Harvey dryly. "That costume he wears makes my eyes hurt. And then there's Mortimer Drake, the Cavalier. Why he has to put on his work clothes off hours…"

"So, the other guests will be a pack of poorly-dressed no-names. Remind me why I'm attending again." Jonathan sighed, remembering that he was on the same level as most of these people. The C-list. Two appearances in thirteen years. It was sad. Of course, during the war he and his coworkers had been very and villains alike threw all pretenses of enmity aside, using comics to boost the public morale both on and off the clock. Crane himself had made a sizable contribution to the war effort by purchasing bonds, partly to make up for attempting to snatch war money as part of a script. He hadn't been a believer in the goodness of humanity to begin with, and the war had hardened him into a downright misanthrope. He was very fond of telling his fellow actors that ordinary people could be as cruel and ruthless as any supervillain.

"Oh, they don't call it the Cross-Studio Festival for nothing. There'll be all kinds of people from the other studios there. Clark Kent, Barry Allen, Lex Luthor."

"I can't stand Lex Luthor," Crane replied, his expression full of contempt. "He's an egomaniac. He thinks he's so smart, and ought to boss around the rest of us by virtue of that alone. And of course, everyone else thinks he's a genius."

"I sense A-list envy," Eddie retorted, jokingly. He was one of very few who could taunt Crane without any kind of consequence, thanks to their loose friendship.

"It's more than that. He said I dress like a tramp. A _tramp_!" Crane shuddered with disgust. "Not all of us can afford flashy suits, you know."

"You could," Karlo pointed out, "if you sold some of those old books of yours." Crane didn't have to say anything to make his answer clear. "Just an idea."

"Come on, Crane. Your room is a mess. People have to live in there. _You_ have to live in there," Eddie added, taking Basil's side.

Harvey groaned. This wasn't the first time the pair had argued about this. "We can talk about that later. I'm not going to miss the festival because you two won't shut up."

* * *

As they'd promised, at the Cross-Studio Festival the four members of the old guard went their separate ways. Eddie was playing the ring toss, suspiciously well, too. Eddie was slick enough at cheating that it was second nature to him and nearly impossible to catch. Then again, since those games were designed to con people anyway, they almost deserved him. The manager, brow furrowed, handed Eddie a small cash reward.

Harvey, as it turned out, wasn't interested in the clay pigeon shooting event. The coconut shy was much better as prizes went, especially since it was one of the few games a casual visitor could easily win. As time went by, the actor settled on a nice racket – he'd come back every half an hour or so for more winnings. Since he was a good marksman, the reward ratcheted up very quickly.

As for Karlo, after watching Harvey for a while, he decided to wander around the fairground. Some familiar faces were there. Dick Grayson could be seen playing an archery game against his old friend Bobby Deen while a bald imp of a man, barely able to reach Basil's knee, was lounging by a fairground slide with candy floss, chatting up Paul Dekker, who was predictably wearing his eye-burning costume. He even saw the ridiculously obese Tweed cousins, Dumfree and Deever, hanging out with Cameron van Cleer and laughing at a bad joke. An enormous snakelike, two-legged dragon reared up next to a helter skelter, spewing horrible-smelling smoke and flames. It was very convincing until one heard the creaks that its mechanical joints made as it moved and saw the rust on its green metal scales.

He hadn't tried to win anything. Competition wasn't his style. It was better left to people who wanted to win, like Harvey and Eddie. Instead, he decided to wander around to see if he could meet anyone else he knew. He'd usually talk to Grayson, but Robin looked busy at the moment. The superhero's archery skill had already won him a fish in a little plastic bag.

Instead, Basil found a wooden bench near the shooting range, surprised to find that it was already taken. A long-limbed, black-haired man in ratty clothes gave him a bored look.

"Oh. How do you do, Jonny?"

Jonathan Crane jabbed a thumb to the range. "Did what Eddie suggested and took part in the clay pigeon shooting competition. Came in second place. That upstart Lawton beat me by some ridiculous amount. They don't call him Deadshot for nothing. I was the best marksman in the studio until he showed up."

"Any consolation prize?" Basil asked, and his roommate slouched.

"Afraid not. I had to go empty-handed. Seems like everything I can do someone else does better. Maybe that's why no one uses me anymore."

Basil draped a consoling arm over Jonathan's shoulder. "You did your best. Second place is nothing to be ashamed of. No one can beat Lawton at shooting. Hey, want a hot dog?"

"Judging from what's happened so far today, it'll give me indigestion. Can't make me feel any worse."

"I'll take that as a yes." Karlo got up to find a snack stand. "Stay right there."

Jonathan watched Basil go, leaning against the side of the bench and observing the people walk by. No one bothered to say anything. Nobody seemed to recognize him at all, and he felt too out of it to enlighten them. Lex was a better dresser and more charismatic, and Deadshot was a better marksman. What did that leave him as? Another third-rate supervillain with a hastily borrowed costume. In some ways, indigestion would be an improvement.

"Hey! You there!" Jonathan, half asleep, snapped into a sitting position. A man wearing a ridiculous black top hat, a British accent, and terrible taste in clothes was standing close by, eyes wide and panicked. "Whoever you are! You've got to help me out! Firefly's coming and he's going to kill me!"

"And why should I help you?" Crane asked, noting that the weird man needed braces. "Do I know you?"

"I'll tell you later. He's coming. Oh, I'm dead! So very dead!"

"Firefly? You mean Garfield Lynns?"

The stranger nodded, obviously terrified. "Listen, if you help me I'll make it worth your while. I've heard of you. You're supposed to be scary, right?"

"That is the general idea, yes. Leave Lynns to me." Crane smirked. Lynns was a new kid. This should be good practice and a way to restore his self-confidence. Besides, it was under the cover of protecting this nutcase from a bully. He had no love for Lynns, anyway. The young man needed to learn respect for his betters.

Sure enough, Garfield Lynns, still in his tight black Firefly costume, strutted over, and Jonathan sprang up from the bench to confront him. "Hey, Crane. Where's that little punk so I can teach him a lesson? He spilled coffee on my suit. I am going to murder him."

"If you want to avoid a fight, I'd get away if I were you," Jonathan warned, trying to seem as large and threatening as possible. Offstage and out of costume, he wasn't quite as imposing, but he could try.

Garfield shot a look at the stranger, now cowering behind the bench. "Well, I'll give you points for finding a bigger friend. You're smarter than I thought."

"I am not his friend. I don't even know him."

"Then let me beat him up."

"I don't think I will," Crane snapped. "I don't like people as dense as you. Go on, leave," he added with the fiercest glare he could manage, hoping to intimidate Lynns into scramming. "Now."

"What's the matter?" Garfield offered a smirk of his own, reaching into a pocket in his costume. "Are you _afraid_ of me, Scarecrow?"

"Oh, very impressive, Garfield. You're always the one to act tough, aren't you?" Jonathan got to his full height, now well and truly angry. "Well, l'd like to tell you that I don't like bullies. If you know what's good for you, you'll leave now. I'm not someone you'd like to upset."

Garfield suddenly stopped dead, his eyes widening with terror behind his costume. No more was needed. He simply turned and ran away screaming, leaving Jonathan laughing like a maniac. So he still had it in him after all.

The stranger crawled out from behind the bench. "Well, we did it! We saw him off, all right."

"_I_ saw him off," Jonathan corrected with some irritation. "I did all the real work. You sat there and cried."

"Well, thank you, Mister, Mister…" The stranger squinted, as if trying to come up with something. "I know your name. It's some sort of water bird. Egret? No. Heron?"

"Crane."

The stranger shrugged. "Close enough. Allow me to introduce myself. The name's Jervis Tetch, stage name The Mad Hatter."

"Pleased to meet you. Now go away." Crane began to lead the other actor in the opposite direction, but Jervis resisted.

"I can't leave. What if that nutcase Lynns comes back? He'll beat the stuffing out of me."

"Not my problem."

"C'mon, Mister Crane! Be a sport. We make a great team," Jervis commented with a smile, raising his hat to reveal spiky blond hair.

Crane whirled round, pushing his hat down in the most intimidating way he knew. "Would you stop that? There is no _we_ here! I barely know you! I am not your friend!"

"Oh, you're a real kidder, you know that, right? Jonny, old pal, we'll be one of the most famous double acts in the state." The crazy man threw back his head and laughed. "I can't just leave you. You saved my life."

"And I'm already feeling sorry I did."

Crane turned to see a large, deathly pale, and very imposing figure lumbering forward. Jonathan's spirits sank when he realized that he hadn't been the one to scare Lynns. It had been the newcomer all along. "Well, hello, there. Name's Cyrus Gold, but you can call me Solomon Grundy. Heard a bit of a ruckus and came over here to sort it out."

Jonathan could pick up the scent of what smelled suspiciously like peat and swamp muck. Jervis cowered behind him, clearly terrified of Gold and surprised that his new friend wasn't. Judging from his muscles and sheer size, Cyrus could have easily snapped the other man's back in two like a dry twig. He was even more stunned when Crane calmly introduced himself and began chatting up the undead brute as if they were old friends. Birds of a feather.

"Ah, hello there, Mister Gold. It's a pleasure to see you today. You're certainly, shall we say, dressed for the occasion. The name's Jonathan Crane. I work close by." Jonathan gave a weak smile, realizing what had really happened. "And good job running off Firefly."

"I don't like him, either, but he didn't have any real weapon. His bark's worse than his bite." Cyrus seemed to notice that the other actor was a little disappointed. "You could've taken him."

"No, that's not it. I've lost my touch. I'm not scary anymore. It's pathetic. My heart just isn't in it."

Jervis remarked, "Selina will be glad to hear that. I don't think she likes you very much."

"You don't get it, do you? That's why no one hires me. I don't scare people. I'm doing something wrong." Cyrus and Jervis exchanged looks, realizing why Jonathan was upset over not being the one to get rid of Lynns. His main edge over people like Deadshot was being scary, and without that…

Noticing that the conversation wasn't getting anywhere, Cyrus left the two alone, shambling away to have a shot at the Test Your Strength game. Jonathan slouched on the bench, more than a little depressed, while Jervis played with the grass.

"Oh, c'mon. Cheer up. It's only a phase, and I'll be there with you till you're better." Jonathan stared at him like he'd suddenly grown an extra eye in the middle of his head. "I've been here for a few years, but I don't have many friends. I came from England, y'know. I'm an old theater man."

"I suspected as much."

"You know what?" Jervis found a seat beside Jonathan. "I think I like your sense of humor."

"I find yours extremely irritating." Crane sat up. "Ah. Here comes Basil with my supper. Took him long enough." Basil Karlo came over with a hot dog in a bun, surprised to see Jervis. "Well, well. You missed all the fun, I'm afraid. Cyrus Gold was here a few moments ago. He – we, I mean – got rid of Garfield Lynns. He was going to 'kill' Mister Tetch here."

"I see. Lynns has always been a bit of a hothead." Karlo handed over the food. "Glad to see you took care of it."

Jonathan fixed Karlo with a look that, unexpectedly, was more worried than sinister. "I want to ask you a question. This is serious. Are you afraid of me?"

"'Course I am," Jervis interrupted. "You scare me stiff."

"You don't mean that. You're just trying to help me feel better. The question is for someone else. Do I frighten you, Basil Karlo?"

Basil didn't really know how to answer. He knew which answer would please Jonathan more, but it wouldn't be the truth. He wanted to be honest to his coworker. Crane had been behaving strangely recently, not picking on the others as much as he usually did and spending an unusual amount of time wandering around the streets of Los Angeles. Even though certain people found this a relief, Karlo was worried.

"Well, no. I've been your roommate for thirteen years, Jonathan. Why should I be scared of you?"

"I suspected that." Jonathan sighed again before savagely biting into his hot dog. "It's not you, it's me. I've lost my touch. There's nothing distinguishing me from the other supervillains but my cheap scarecrow costume. Everyone and his sister can shoot a gun and blow things up. Racketeers are a dime a dozen nowadays. They're just too polite to dismiss me. No good getting a weekly paycheck if it isn't earned."

Karlo chided, "Don't be so selfish. It isn't just you. With the war over, plenty of us have been struggling. We did a lot of work to keep up morale back then. Superheroes lost an enemy to fight, and we villains are hard pressed to be worse than what's already out there. Eddie and Harvey haven't been hired as much as you'd think, and barely anyone uses Dr. Strange or Hellfern. Tony Zucco's gone into the self-help business."

"That's it!" Jonathan exclaimed through another good-sized bite of his supper. "People were afraid during the war, if the comic books were anything to go by. What are people afraid of now?"

"Communists," Jervis squeaked, "and the atom bomb. Mostly Communists, though."

Jonathan got up, quickly swallowed the chunk of hot dog, and started pacing around with the rest in one hand. "So, these Communists frighten people better than I can. Where do I sign up to join?" he said with a joking laugh.

Jervis and Basil swapped an anxious look. "You really don't want to. Heaven knows you've gotten into enough trouble." Basil suggested, "Why not ask if you can have a mentor? You won't be the first. Not everyone can go solo right away."

"I'll try to handle it myself first. I just have to use what people are already frightened of. First off, I'll see what the fuss is about nuclear weapons and how I can exploit that fear in my act." Crane smiled wickedly in a way that distinctly unnerved Karlo, showing teeth. "We'll see if I'm out of the running just yet, Basil. Just you two wait."


	3. Duck and Cover

**Duck and Cover**

_Nothing is more despicable than __respect_ based on _fear._

_- _Albert Camus

* * *

The next day, the streets of Los Angeles were visited again by a skinny figure, ostensibly to visit an antiques shop but actually there to learn how to frighten people again by adapting to more current fears. For a former farm boy and native of the Deep South, Jonathan Crane had adapted remarkably quickly to city life. The fact that he had nothing but bile and contempt for his old life in Georgia helped. He tended to mostly keep to his territory in his new home city, with the odd casual trip to San Francisco to visit some favorite bookstores. Today he was sticking to familiar ground.

First, Jonathan visited a comics stand, buying an issue of _Vault of Horror_ that he'd had his eye on for a while, casually flipping through it before adding a newspaper to the purchase. Maybe there was something about the atomic bomb in the local news. He vaguely remembered it from 1945, back when the war was still going on. It had been used against Japan, twice. He'd heard the news about V-J Day on the radio.

It seemed that what terrified people about the bomb was the potential of total obliteration in and of itself, combined with a looming feeling of inevitability. Because it was so powerful, it wouldn't just be you who was killed. Your entire town would go up in flames with you. To make things worse, you'd know you were dead the moment you heard the plane in the sky, saw the flash. Certainly a sobering thought, and now their fear was completely understandable. Jonathan's only task was to appropriate that fear for himself. He doubted that the film crew back at the studio he worked for would let him handle nuclear weapons, or even discuss the subject in such tense times. He liked to scare people, but he wasn't stupid.

After buying the newspaper, Jonathan noticed something in the events section, giving it a closer look. There was a showing of a government-funded civil defense film called "Duck and Cover" at a local elementary school not too far from where he lived. Crane had never been a real teacher, but this would be a good chance to observe and research how people were supposed to protect themselves in the face of the allegedly all-consuming nuclear threat.

Getting into the school wasn't all that difficult. Parents and guests were invited to the "Duck and Cover" showing, and so Jonathan was able to slip in. He mentioned offhandedly when questioned that he was a guest who'd come to watch and take notes on the short film. To keep up the image, he'd brought a notebook and pen. He would be taking notes, of course, but for his own purposes. The room was packed, so he found a place beside an old woman with a brown leather purse and her nine-year-old granddaughter. The little girl giggled when she saw the curious stranger take out the book. Jonathan didn't do anything. He had no objection to frightening children, especially ones who annoyed him, but there were more important things to do, and there was no sport in it here.

The teacher, a middle-aged woman with curly brown hair, introduced the movie and gave some description of what it was about and how important it could be. No one was very impressed yet. Some of the students were passing notes or whispering to one another. Jonathan drummed his fingers on the desk, getting looks from the people beside him. Undaunted, she pulled down a screen to show the footage on.

The lights dimmed, and he straightened when the black-and-white figure of an animated turtle strolled onto the screen. The turtle, who had the remarkably unimaginative name of Bert, used his shell to avoid a monkey which blew itself up with a firecracker. If the filmmakers were going for a metaphor about the self-destructive futility of nuclear weapons, Crane might have appreciated that part a little more. Or maybe the monkey was just an idiot, which was just as likely.

Despite every better instinct, Jonathan caught himself humming along. The thing was silly and didn't make any sense, but the lyrics were catchy. How was this relevant? People weren't turtles.

After the stupid but mildly entertaining animated segment, a title page revealed that it was a film created in part by the Federal Civil Defense Association. No surprises there. The US government wouldn't want people too paranoid to function. It was an old psychological trick, and one Jonathan was familiar with. A cynic like him saw through the smokescreen in a moment. However, Jonathan was still trying to figure out what "duck and cover" meant and how it was supposed to protect people from a nuclear blast.

The rest of the movie was atrocious. Explaining the concept of nuclear apocalypse to small children couldn't have been an easy thing to do. No wonder everyone was too scared already to be frightened by him. The narrator stated matter-of-factly that nuclear bombs could cause bad burns.

_You don't say_, Jonathan thought to himself as he made a note of that. If the film's script was anything to go by, apparently 'duck and cover' was allegedly a way to protect yourself from the atom bomb by ducking behind a desk, table, or whatever. He didn't understand how this was supposed to defend you from a nuclear fireball. Wood could burn, and the bomb was ridiculously powerful from what he knew about it. Entire cities had been destroyed in Japan. It went without saying that it would do much worse than knock someone down or deal out a few burn injuries.

The one thing that did come across was how paranoid having this omnipresent threat looming over the country made everyone. The whole idea of there not being any warning of imminent death was admittedly a frightening one. Even Jonathan himself couldn't help but be unnerved a little by the concept, not that he'd show it. Maybe he was helplessly out of touch after all, unless there was some way to exploit how ducking and covering couldn't possibly save the children, let alone the population of Los Angeles, from certain nuclear doom.

He didn't know how that idea could be added to the comic, but there was no harm in giving it a practice run. This movie was ridiculous. He barely held back a snicker at one particularly ludicrous survival tip. A thin layer of newspaper saving you from radioactive annihilation was laughable. Besides, it was downright lying to children, intentions no part of it. It was his duty as an American citizen to tell the truth to these deluded people, the fear he could provoke a bonus.

The stupid turtle came back, repeating the twaddle about ducking and covering, and the film faded out. The teacher pulled up the screen and the lights came back on. Not the least bit unnerved herself, she first asked the class if there were any questions. The children sat there, petrified, too anxious or confused to try. She turned to the parents and visitors. This time Jonathan seized his chance, raising his hand and eagerly asking his question when called on.

"How precisely would hiding underneath our desks and tables save our lives, ma'am? As I understand it, we'd all be blown to kingdom come anyway. Why are you telling these children that ducking and covering will protect them from a bomb dropped on this city when it won't? The fallout will kill us all with radioactive sickness even if we aren't disintegrated. We may as well all look out the window and see nuclear death for ourselves."

The teacher stared at him, for the first time realizing that there was something strange about this particular visitor. Before she could explain, if she could at all, the little girl beside Jonathan started wailing. When she saw the stranger grin at the sound of her cries, the old woman raised her purse and took action.

"I don't know who you are, sir, but leave my granddaughter alone. How dare you do this to her! Brute!" Before Jonathan could say anything, she brought it down on his head hard. He staggered, barely able to catch himself, only to meet with another blow to the chest and an elbow to the back. "Get out, you pervert!" He instinctively took off his glasses to protect his eyes, hearing the children laugh as the old woman continued attacking him. This was painful and embarrassing. As the battered stranger picked himself up with as much dignity as he could manage, dropping his notebook, and briskly fled school property, the teacher asked the children again if they had any questions about the movie. This time, they were laughing too hard to listen.

* * *

"So, let me get this straight. You were attacked and beaten by an old lady with a purse after you terrorized a bunch of schoolchildren by playing Prophet of Doom." Eddie Nygma shook his head. "Sometimes you amaze me, Jonny-boy." The old crowd, now with an uninvited extra member in the form of Jervis, sat together in the studio cafeteria. Jonathan had lost his appetite, barely picking at his food, and walked as if something was wrong with one leg. He wasn't much of a heavy eater anyway, as could be guessed by how thin he was. His dining habits were, to be honest, deeply strange. He had something of a dislike for liquor, only drinking very rarely during social occasions. Besides his first night as a keeper, he hadn't been one to gorge himself, either. Still, he did eat, and more vigorously than Karlo saw. His sandwich was barely nibbled, and his coffee untouched.

"Well, I couldn't exactly fight an old woman. That would have looked terrible." Jonathan coughed into his sleeve. "I suppose I just have very bad luck with old ladies. All it did was confirm to me that I need to fix my act fast. There's too much fear around."

"I would have thought you'd like that," Basil commented, and Jonathan shrugged.

"Under normal circumstances, yes, but the trouble is that it isn't me they're afraid of. People today are afraid of Communist spies and nuclear annihilation, not people like us. No wonder comic books are dying out."

"You're an optimist," snapped Harvey. "As far as I can see, plenty of folks are doing good business. Just not us. Comics are far from extinct. You like your horror comics, Jonathan, and I sometimes get cowboy comics." Eddie faced him, genuinely surprised. "It's a guilty pleasure. People can have those."

"Yes, well," Jervis pointed out, "Crane's point stands. He's talking about the kind of comics we make. If it's going to be that way, why don't we start hiring Communist supervillains?"

Not amused, Jonathan retorted, "Just what I need. More competition."

"Besides," added Harvey, "we're actors, not politicians. Remember all that trouble in Hollywood recently? I wouldn't be surprised if a search is ordered here one day."

Crane laughed, but more hoarsely than expected. "I don't care. As long as things stay the way they are, I have no particular interest in politics. It doesn't suit me, if I do say so myself."

"If you get in trouble, it'll be your own smart mouth that does it," Harvey predicted, although he knew that Jonathan didn't particularly give a spit for the world outside his studio. As long as his job was secure, he wasn't one to complain about much of anything, outside of the usual sarcasm and bitter language. Crane smiled slyly before biting into his sandwich. Apparently conversation helped his appetite.

High above, perched atop a railing, a black bird narrowed its eyes, spread its wings and, with a caw, dove directly for him. Panicking for a moment and remembering the slash of talons, Crane instinctively covered his head, fell off of his chair, and collapsed on the floor, flat on his back, the air knocked out of him. Eddie Nygma was laughing like an idiot. Even Harvey was trying not to smirk. Basil, aided by Jervis, helped Jonathan get to his feet. Jonathan, now that he'd regained his senses and breath, knew the culprit by sight.

"Come here, Crawson Crow, you flea-ridden sack of feathers! You know I'm afraid of birds!"

Crawson cackled hoarsely, throwing back his black beak. He perched on the table, head tilted. Unusually intelligent even for his kind and able to talk, the crow was a notorious prankster, emboldened by his ability to fly, which he showed as Jonathan lunged at him. He nimbly darted just out of reach, going higher in the air to taunt the other actor further.

"Bit 'ronic fer a scarecrow to be 'fraid of birds, ain't it?" Crawson teased. "How ya doin', Jonny, old pal?"

"What are you doing here? This isn't even your studio!" Crane barked, giving up on catching the tricky crow. He and Crawson did not get along well, since the combination of his fear of birds and quick temper made him fun to annoy, provided that one could get out of the way. Crawson, who had a cousin in the funny animal business, loved danger, and teasing Jonathan Crane wasn't an especially safe thing to do. Satisfied with his joke, Crawson perched on a wood windowsill a safe distance away.

"I go where I want to, whenever I want. Besides, I like ya. Yer more fun than the people back where I come from."

"Good show, Crawson!" Eddie liked the crow, especially since it was always a riot to see Crane get a dose of his own medicine. Besides, the irony was perfect - someone so proud of his ability to terrify people as Jonathan Crane being spooked by a harmless, if annoying, creature like Crawson. It was a curious thing. Jonathan paid a healthy amount of respect to coworkers who ranked higher than him, like Wayne, or who could actually harm him if angry, like Waylon Jones. But Crawson was the only other actor he actually _feared_.

"Whose side are you on?" Jonathan asked his friend, shaking a fist at the laughing Crawson. "One of these days I'll have you stuffed, you hear me? I'll pluck out your feathers, one by one, and use them in a pillow!"

"Ya'll hafta get me first," cawed the bird, raising a wing in a faux salute, "and I ain't one ta get got. You've got some kinda beef with us birds, and if I didn't know any better I'd think you've got problems with grannies, too."

"That's none of your business!"

"Calm down," Basil advised, stopping Jonathan from throwing a cup at the bird. "You know Crawson's just trying to get a rise out of you. He's nothing but a tease. He does it to a lot of people."

"Yes," Jonathan retorted wearily, "but I'm his favorite."

"Amen, that's the truth," added Crawson, with an infuriating smirk on his beak. "I'm always 'appy to 'elp an old pal out. Nice place you've got 'ere. Great food, too."

Jonathan glowered at the bird, reaching for a plate. "I hope you choke."

"How charmin'. Well, I don't wanna outlast me welcome. See ya later, alligator." Crawson nodded a farewell and flew out an open window, dropping his cigar on the way.

Jonathan was deeply upset, and not just because he'd had a bad day in general. When Crawson startled him, he'd fallen on his bad leg, which now hurt like hell. Being taunted by the bird was just the icing on the cake. "If I ever get my hands on him, I'll wring his neck."

Basil knew how sensitive Jonathan was about being made fun of or laughed at, and knew that the encounter with Crawson couldn't have helped his roommate's failing self-esteem. "Crawson's not a mean bird. He's just a trickster. If you didn't react to him, he wouldn't annoy you as much."

"Oh, so I'm supposed to ignore an unprovoked dive bombing? It's like that idiot movie." Jonathan cackled, not unlike the crow himself. "You know. Duck and cover." The rest of the old guard stared, confused. "Never mind. I know I'm past it anyway. I can't scare people anymore. I got close today, but, well…"

"An old lady happened," Eddie finished, snickering. Even though his alliance with Crane offered some protection from the other actor's moods, he was trying Jonathan's patience.

"Precisely! People used to be afraid of me. Paul Herold and the extras I used to work with still step to the other side of the street whenever they see me there. I used to get my own row on the bus because no one wanted to sit beside me. It was glorious. And here I am – children laugh at me, Crawson torments me every chance he gets, and I can't win a fight against a seventy-year-old grandmother. The only action I've seen in the past ten years is being called as a consultant for their special effects work." Jonathan sighed, taking a swig of his coffee. "I think you were right, Karlo. I need help."

"So the Scarecrow's lost his scare." Eddie smirked, ignoring the glare he got. "Selina should be pleased by that little bit of news. No wonder your heart isn't in it any more."

"It isn't funny," Basil told him firmly. "I knew something was wrong at the carnival. I'll escort you to the secretary, Jonathan. He can find a mentor for you who can teach you how to be scary again. An old-timer, like Helfern or Strange. They offered themselves up for newcomers who are struggling. Here's how the system works. Twice a week, on Wednesdays and Fridays, you meet with your assigned mentor, and he shows you some of the tricks of the business and what your current act is missing. Now, I'm not very good at this, but I'd say that your issue is that you don't feel different enough from the others. Common problem. No clue how to solve it myself, though."

Jonathan nodded glumly, his eye looking to Jervis for a moment. "Hope we figure out a way soon."

* * *

After lunch, Jervis, Basil and Eddie led Jonathan to the secretary's desk. The old secretary from the days when Crane had first arrived in the city had long since retired. His replacement was none other than Roger MacGuire the night guard. Despite Roger's flashy new clothes and position, he was still the nervous man from that night way back in 1941. Crane usually liked to spook Roger for old times' sake, but he wasn't in the mood. Roger, for his part, was almost used to it, greeting his old tormentor with a wave.

"Hello there, Mister Crane! What brings you here today? Paperwork? Need a schedule?"

"More than that. I need a mentor." Crane brought over a chair, taking a moment to appreciate the irony that he, a psychologist by trade at least on set, was explaining his problems to a former night watchman. "I don't scare people anymore. I need to find out what I can do to be frightening again."

"He doesn't sneak up on us, slip disgusting animals in our dressing rooms, or force his movies on us any more. Actually," Eddie realized, "I don't know why we want normal Jonathan Crane back. I kind of like him better this way."

"Be nice," Jervis hissed, more fiercely than anyone could have imagined possible.

Basil elaborated, "Jonathan's listless and depressed, almost sick, and I don't like seeing any friend miserable. I know he can be a pain, yes, but I miss him. I'll help him get over this. I wouldn't be a good roommate if I didn't." He faced Roger, who was slipping a sheet of paper to Jonathan. Jonathan read it over a few times and quickly began filling it out.

"I'm finding out which of the available mentors is best suited for him," the secretary explained after Jonathan handed the completed form back. "I think I know just the one. I'll have to have a word with him to see if he's available at a time that suits both him and Mr. Crane. I should warn that he might scare you at first."

Jonathan snorted rudely. Who else in the studio could be more frightening than him? "I think I'll take my chances."

"You think you're scary, sure, but I've known you for thirteen years. The guy I've picked for you will whip you into shape. He's worked here for a long time. Semi-retired, but don't let that fool you."

For the first time in a long while, Jonathan Crane felt genuinely nervous, and immediately tried to cover it up by thanking Roger for the help. He became aware of a sinking feeling gnawing at the pit of his stomach. He mentally ran through the possible options: Joker was highly unlikely, he and Oswald Cobblepot despised one another, Karl Hellfern was too reclusive these days, and Hugo Strange would be a likely choice if Crane had ever seen him.

As a young man in Georgia, a year before he'd come to California in search of work and wages, Crane saw Strange as one of his personal heroes and an inspiration for his plan to escape Arlen and head west. Somehow, however, the idea of actually meeting the old supervillain was more than a little frightening. He'd have to make a good impression on Hugo Strange if he was going to learn how to be scary again and keep his job.

When Roger passed him his end of the mentoring paperwork, he signed his name quickly and clearly before returning it.

"Well, Mr. Crane, I wish you the best of luck. Tomorrow's Wednesday, so if he's open he'll want to come and see you. Our mentors like getting to know their students a little ahead of time." Jonathan nodded stiffly, wishing that the sickness in his stomach would go away. Maybe something in his lunch was refusing to digest. Yes, that was it. His sandwich must be disagreeing with him. He couldn't be afraid. Scaring people was his job.

As his friends led him out of the room, Jonathan decided that the first thing he'd do was get a good sleep. That would take care of the queasiness in his belly. He couldn't look sick when he met his new mentor. That simply wouldn't do at all.

* * *

**Author's Note: For the curious, "Duck and Cover" is a real Cold War-era film, now in the public domain, and can be easily found and viewed on YouTube or Wikipedia.**


	4. Memories

**Memories**

_From childhood's hour I have not been  
As others were - I have not seen  
As others saw - I could not bring  
My passions from a common spring -_

_- _Edgar Allan Poe_, Alone_

* * *

As it turned out, sleep didn't really help Jonathan's upset stomach. It didn't help Basil Karlo much, either, since Crane liked to sit in a chair with the light on and read when he was sick. This time he took Basil's copy of _How To Find Your Inner Psychopath_, skimming through it and humming a gruesome little ditty to himself. Karlo didn't mind. Unlike Jonathan, he was generous with his books, and knew that his roommate probably badly needed something to do. A bored Jonathan Crane was not a good thing to have loose in his room.

As Jonathan sat in the chair and crooned over the book, Basil hunched up in his side of the room and tried to sleep. He didn't succeed very much at it, but he didn't want to cause any trouble.

Things stayed this way until eight in the morning, when a knock at the door roused Crane, who got up from his chair and put down the book.

"Coming!" he yelled, surprised that his voice didn't rasp like it usually did when he felt ill. Basil, suspecting who the visitor was, picked up the book and put it away, leaving Jonathan to handle it. The younger actor gulped, a curious sight with his long, skinny neck. It wasn't like him to feel so insecure. He admitted, grudgingly, that Basil was right. Something was definitely wrong with him. He opened the door, allowing his new mentor to come in. He straightened when he realized who exactly Secretary MacGuire had assigned him.

His new mentor cut an imposing figure: bald, broad-shouldered, shorter but bulkier and more physically powerful than Jonathan. While he could fight if he had to and was in the process of teaching himself martial arts, Crane relied on stealth, intelligence, and intimidation more than brute strength, mostly because many of his coworkers were much stronger than him. The newcomer's eyes couldn't be seen behind those huge, tinted glasses, and he had a permanent scowl and a short, bushy beard. There was no question about it. Jonathan knew who he was dealing with. Professor Hugo Strange, veteran actor and the second villain to join the studio.

Although he fought it, Jonathan felt the butterflies in his stomach turn into fluttering sparrows. Something about the man disturbed him, and by nature and training he didn't scare easily. There were only a few things in the world he considered himself afraid of: birds, especially crows, for reasons he would not share, bats, and his great-grandmother back in Georgia, who was no threat to him. He didn't like being scared or feeling vulnerable, either, as inflicting fear on others was his specialty. He covered it up with a professional, uncharacteristically courteous air. "Hello, sir."

"You are Master Jonathan Crane of Room Three?" Strange asked, pulling out a sheet of paper.

"Yes," Jonathan agreed, "you would be correct. That's my name. Come in, if you please. I'll bring you a chair." Basil decided to leave the two of them alone. When Crane was this polite, it usually meant he was nervous, and he didn't like other people to see him weak. The old actor crept out the door as Jonathan led his new mentor in, smiling weakly.

"What do you think, Mr. Strange?" he asked, hoping that the old man wouldn't catch the quiver in his voice. He'd idolized Hugo Strange from a distance, but actually meeting the man made him nervous on a number of levels. He wanted to impress Strange, for one thing, knowing that the man was a studio veteran. Also, seeing the older actor made him feel like the small, cringing, frightened boy he'd been back home in Arlen. That was a feeling he did not like.

Strange didn't speak for a moment, not remarking on Jonathan's nervous hand-wringing or stuttering. He saw Crane's extensive private library, the magazines scattered next to his television, some open, and a few souvenirs from the issues he'd worked on: a framed copy of his first comic hung on the right wall, a prop newspaper reading "BUSINESSMAN SHOT BY SCARECROW" was beside it, and a small hand-carved jade scarecrow, dating from the early Qing dynasty in China, was positioned on a shelf.

"There's an interesting story behind that one," Jonathan explained, talking quickly. "It was used in the last comic I worked on back in 1943. I took a liking to it and, after filming, asked the director if I could keep it for myself. He agreed. It's probably worth a couple thousand dollars. The most valuable thing I own. Karlo's always trying to get me to sell it off."

"A fine collection," Strange agreed, and Jonathan sighed in relief. "I see you are a connoisseur of a certain kind of literature. I admit to enjoying Arthur Machen and de Maupassant myself. A first-edition copy of _The Great God Pan_. How much did this cost you, Master Crane?"

"A full month's saved pay," Jonathan replied proudly, trying to keep control over the discussion. He did enjoy talking about his collection. Complimenting it was one of the few ways to ensure civility from him, something Basil and others had learned very quickly. "The Poe I have is a complete collection, every short story he wrote in there. My personal favorite is _The Cask of Amontillado_. That, or _Hop-Frog_."

Strange moved on to the next book. "An Irving, I see. _The Legend of Sleepy Hollow_. There is another famous Crane in that story."

"Yes," Jonathan muttered with a hint of bitterness. "I have sympathies with Ichabod. Been compared to him enough times. Difference is that no one, Headless Horseman or Brom Bones, will scare me out of town. It's my job to frighten people."

Strange, instead of commenting further, brought another wooden chair, taking a seat in one and inviting Jonathan to sit in the other. Jonathan obeyed with some reluctance, his long arms dangling from the armrests. The chair was built for shorter people than him. He felt cramped and quite uncomfortable, sure that he'd get up with a terrible backache.

"Master Crane, your suspicions are quite correct. I am your new mentor. From what I gather, your problems are less to do with your ability and more to do with the feelings of inadequacy you're currently suffering. To put it more clearly, it is all in your head."

"I'm here to learn how to do my job, not to have a psychoanalysis. I'm every bit the psychologist you are. Everywhere I look I see frightened people. Fear of Communists, fear of bombs, fear of our own government. How am I supposed to be scary in an environment with so much competition?" Jonathan calmed down slightly, realizing how frantic he sounded. "Look, I admire your work. You're a genius. An innovator. If anyone can make the Scarecrow frightening again, it's you."

"No. It must be you. I merely give you advice on how to frighten people. The work comes from you, Master Crane. I do not blame you for your trouble. It is hard to be more terrifying than atomic death, if such a thing is even possible."

Jonathan didn't find that comment very encouraging. "Thank you, Dr. Strange."

Strange only nodded, his expression unchanging. "It's a noble tradition you have chosen to follow, my boy, and one too often overlooked. Heroes are nothing without us. They _need_ us. People need us. Can you imagine Little Red Riding Hood without the wolf, or Saint George without the dragon? Our task is to embody the world's darkness and fears so the hero can destroy it. Simple story, old as time itself. Good cannot exist without evil. Light needs darkness. We give people the illusion that evil can be defeated."

"Stop the philosophy. I want to learn how to do my job, that's all." Jonathan was beginning to get frustrated with his mentor's behavior.

"It is not just a job. It is a duty. You do not realize that, because you are still young. To become a true supervillain, you have to know what you are. From what I gather, you have potential and skill. All you need is purpose and determination. That is what I will give you. Now, I must ask you a question. Have you tried to see what gives people fear today? That is what I would start with."

"Yes. Yes, I have. That's why I have a limp, you see. Nothing out there was too encouraging. Everyone's too paranoid to be scared by me. I'm just a crazy whose job involves wearing a hollowed-out scarecrow as a costume. If they used me more, I'd try and improve my costume model, but…"

"Some of us, Master Crane, do not wear costumes at all, and we manage to frighten people. It is merely a matter of aesthetics. Now, then. My first lesson is for us to learn a little bit about one another. Tell me about your past."

Jonathan got up, aware of his own fear reaction and hating it. "I've never told anyone about where I came from more than I have to, and I don't plan on sharing it with you!"

"Ah, I see," Strange commented. "It is that kind of past. It hurts you to talk about it."

"No, it doesn't just 'hurt'," Jonathan snapped, losing his temper. "It's pathetic and embarrassing and painful. I crossed the entire damned country to get away from my life in Georgia, and here you are bringing it back." Jonathan knew that he shouldn't be going after his mentor, but the subject made him angry and defensive.

"I will not tell another soul what you tell me, Master Crane. I think it would be best if you let all the hate and resentment festering in your heart flow out. You can only fulfill your potential with drive. Face your own fears. Someone hurt you, a long time ago. I can see that. You were born somewhere in the South, were you not?"

"I did _not_ want to discuss this. Ever." Jonathan knew, though, that Strange was right. Letting out the hate, at least for a while, would free up his mental energies for other things. "But since you promised not to share it, I will. Not that I'm happy about it."

"Good. Go on, then, Master Crane. We will not be busy today." Hugo Strange leaned back in the chair, but didn't take off his glasses. Crane, in a moment of fancy, wondered if he ever did take them off.

"All right, then. I was born in a place called Arlen, a farm town in Georgia. The Deep South. It was during the early years of Prohibition, but that didn't stop some of the people there from brewing the best drink in the state. My father was a man named Gerald Crane. He was a rich man with a good lineage, but he had a fault - a love for the bottle. One night he had more whiskey than even he usually drank and went out to find a local woman he liked, a pretty girl named Karen Keeny. It was a wild night, things got out of control, and they had an accident. Me."

"An accident." Strange's voice was emotionless. "My, that's an... _interesting_ thing to call a child."

"That's the term they used. They were poor, too poor to raise a baby. Gerald quit town completely and moved to Atlanta. I think that their first idea was discreetly getting rid of me, but it was turned down. Some of the Keenys were a religious lot, so they let Karen give birth to me. Some of them wanted me dead as soon as I was out of the womb. Filthy hypocrites," he spat, not bothering to hide the venom in his voice. "My own granny, Marion, suggested that they bury me alive in the family atrium or 'accidentally' lose me in the river. Karen wouldn't hear of it. That didn't stop her from handing me over to my great-grandmother, Mary Keeny. She was wealthier than the rest and needed a hand around the house. At least that's what she told my mother. Karen never came back for me, either. Said she would, but she never did. I think she just forgot."

Crane paused from his story, and Strange gestured for him to continue. "Do you know your parents today?"

"No. Never met them. Part of me hopes they come here so I can laugh in their faces. My great-grandmother, whose tender care they left me in, was a wicked old witch. As soon as I could walk, she worked me to the bone with chores. She hated me because I was born out of adultery, and drunken adultery at that. No good can come of a child like that, she always said. She always reminded me of what I was and how Karen was too lazy and forgetful to come back, so I needed her to live. Not that she was kind about it. Whenever I was home late, or was caught with books she didn't approve of, she would do things to me."

"What kind of things?" Strange asked, genuinely curious, and Jonathan breathed in before answering. He especially hated these particular memories.

"Oh, the usual. She was one of those old-time 'spare the rod, spoil the child' religious nuts. Things like offering me to a flock of crows which nested in a church close by, locking me in a belfry for the night, practically starving me till I could see my own ribs, harmless things like that." Jonathan's sarcasm was acid and bitter. "Fed me just what I needed to live and denied me supper if I did anything wrong.

"When I was about ten, my current interests began to develop. I brought home snakes, spiders, and other little animals to study. She killed my first pet, a black rat snake I found outside and tried to keep in my room. Said snakes were animals of the Devil, and that I was of the Devil, too. Things after that got worse. She saw my interest in horror grow, and tried harder to beat it out of me. Pointless, of course. As pointless as trying to teach a cat to stop hunting birds. But I was rebellious, and need made me clever. I wanted to live just to spite her.

"I learned how to creep and sneak young. It was self-defense. Smuggled books in and out of my room, crept out of bed to slip into movie theaters, making sure to come back before morning so I wasn't caught. It was a dirty, miserable, low life. I hated having to hide. I hated her with as much venom as she hated me. I hated my parents for leaving me alone. I learned that my half-sister, who had a proper family, was only a baby and she was happier than me. I didn't know what love and happiness were. Getting help from outside was pointless. It was the unwritten rule in Arlen that people dealt with unruly children in their own way, and visitors were rare to begin with. Barely anyone noticed the pale, beaten, half-starved boy hunched in the corner."

"So, then, how did you get from a farmhouse in Georgia to the heart of Los Angeles?" Strange seemed genuinely interested now. As he'd said would happen, Crane felt a little calmer and much less sick.

"I eventually learned that I had the power to fight back. As I grew up, I made a great discovery. Mary Keeny was afraid of _me_, or, more exactly, what I'd grow up to become. As I grew bigger and stronger, I could sense her becoming more frightened, and her fear made me stronger and braver. I did my best to help: staring, practicing my most disturbing grins, whistling when I came back from one of her punishments. I did everything I could to exploit her paranoia and superstition. Useful practice. Finally I was big enough to plot my escape.

"I knew my life wasn't like the books I'd read. No convenient long-lost relative would come to save me and punish Mary Keeny. I'd learned long ago that I was on my own and couldn't count on other people. In the last years I'd discovered comic books, and decided to leave Georgia forever and find myself a steady job somewhere else. So I simply went away one night and never came back."

"You didn't harm her?" Hugo raised an eyebrow, and Jonathan answered quickly.

"No. Can't say the thought didn't cross my mind, though. A part of me wanted to use the chance to strangle the old biddy in her bed as she slept as payment for her years of abuse, but I knew that no one would hire a murderer, and I couldn't find the willpower to carry it out. Instead I took some clothes, scrounged up the money I'd saved, grabbed my grandfather's old suitcase, and went out the door without looking back. I don't think she gave me a second's thought after I disappeared. One less mouth to feed." Jonathan chuckled, but there was no humor in it. "I knew I needed an alias to join, so I swiped our old scarecrow from the field, sliced it open, and took out its insides to turn it into a costume. One of these days," he mused, "I'll kill her off in a script or something. Get her out of my head for good."

"It must have been hard for you to leave. Did you not have friends at school?"

"Friends? Ha. Don't make me laugh. There were people who picked on me and people who ignored me. The whole town knew who I was and where I'd come from. The bastard. The walking accident. The shame of the Keenys and the Cranes, two once-proud local families, only still alive because they didn't have the guts to get rid of me. I sometimes used tricks involving my animals to get my own back on the worst bullies, but never face-to-face. I never fought them. Even my great-grandmother. Never had the spine to call her out, tell her that the way she treated me was wrong, that she, not I, was the closest thing to the Devil in the house. I ran away from Arlen and my family like a coward. It was hard to get a job during the Depression, but I worked as a volunteer stagehand for a while up north in New York City, and it was there that I heard the comics were hiring out west. Got a train and went to Los Angeles."

"Do you enjoy it here?"

Jonathan threw back his head and laughed. "Show business certainly beats being starved and beaten. To be perfectly honest, until recently this was the life. Plenty of workmates to practice on, good wages, three meals a day, people treating me with both fear and respect, and all the books I could afford. I miss those days."

"And you will have them again, Master Crane, if we have anything to say about it. You have determination, skill, and enthusiasm. All you need is a new gimmick," Strange analyzed, leaving Jonathan utterly confused.

"A gimmick? You mean some kind of trick. Something only I can do. Like Nygma's riddles and Jervis's thing with hats." He grinned as he realized what the old actor meant. This changed everything. "If I can find one, they'll have to hire me again!"

"You do not have one already?" asked Hugo Strange, and Jonathan shook his head.

"Well, I did have one, briefly, but I don't think it impressed people too much. Leaving behind three-letter words as clues is a pretty bad gimmick. Eddie did the same thing a lot better." Jonathan felt quite a bit more lively now. "I'm something of a sharpshooter, but Lawton does the same thing these days. Do you have any ideas, Mr. Strange? I'm desperate. Whatever it is, I'll take it if it's good."

Strange didn't speak for a while, seeing the younger man's energy. "Yes. I do. I will give it to you when I feel that you are scary enough to accept it. Until then, the best of luck to you, Master Crane."

Crane, still covering up the edginess he still felt from sharing his story, grabbed his fedora. His career was saved. This called for an excursion into town to celebrate. Besides, there was a new issue of _Tales from the Crypt _out that week for him to pick up. Out of all the city's pleasures, adding new books to his collection was a favorite.

Bidding an uncharacteristically cheerful goodbye to his mentor, Jonathan strode out the door humming an old tune from the South, a new spring in his step. Everyone in the studio who saw him, knowing that he usually only acted like that when plotting, kept a polite distance.

That suited him just fine.

* * *

The comics stand owned by Paul Whitlock was used to strange visitors. The usual crowd, mostly children, came to buy comic books. Their parents did, too, usually to see what the fuss was all about. Then there was one visitor in particular. Whitlock didn't particularly care who bought from his stand as long as they brought money, and _that_ customer had plenty. They were on surprisingly friendly terms, seeing as the guy bought most of his comics from Whitlock's stand. Besides which, he actually worked on comics, something which the stand owner found extremely interesting. The only problem was that he had a way of frightening away the other customers, seemingly just by being there.

Sure enough, there he was. Whitlock knew that scrawny frame whenever he saw it. The customer didn't waste any time on talk or poking around the store, instead immediately asking for that week's copy of _Tales From the Crypt_ and taking out a handful of quarters. Whitlock was afraid that something like this would happen.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Crane, but we don't sell _Tales From the Crypt_ any more." Jonathan Crane, surprisingly, looked more stunned than anything else. For a moment Whitlock worried that the man would turn on him, but instead Jonathan rummaged through the offered comics to see if he was telling the truth first. _Batman_, _Superman_, yes, the cowboy comics were there, too, but no horror comics could be found.

"No _Tales From the Crypt_ copies?" Jonathan asked, now with a hint of anger. "Not a single issue?"

"Nope."

"What about _The_ _Vault of Horror_?" Now Jonathan's voice was a little quicker, agitated. Something strange was going on, and his instincts didn't like it. "_The Haunt of Fear_? Surely you have something."

"'Fraid not. Now, I can understand why you're upset. I know how much you like those things. Thing is, a bunch of people got together and complained. Said these horror comics are inappropriate for children and had them pulled off my stand. I didn't agree with it, but there you go."

"People complained?" Crane fingered a _Batman_ comic. It had given him a certain pleasure, very long ago, to come here and see himself in the comics' pages. He'd always made sure to pick up issues that he'd helped make. Since there were only two so far, his collection was a little small. "You just gave up because a few parents got up in arms?"

"Didn't have a choice. My boss made the decision for me. There's a growing number of people who don't like comics, especially the scary ones. You have very unique tastes, Mr. Crane, and I'm afraid most of the city doesn't share them."

"They pulled _Tales From the Crypt_," Jonathan hissed, partly angry and partly disgusted. "They pulled it! How am I supposed to add to my collection now? Whose idea was this?"

"People don't like comics as much as they used to, especially older people. Parents, teachers, doctors. Said they turn kids into crooks or something like that. Full of innuendo and violence. Should be banned or at least heavily censored. Don't blame me. Not my idea."

Jonathan was still angry, but it wasn't Whitlock he was angry at. He quietly put down the comic book he was looking at, slipped all the books he'd taken out back in place, and gave Paul one last disappointed look. He'd always come to Whitlock's stand to get his comics and told no end of stories about how they were made, including issues he'd worked in. He'd paid the owner back in full, and with more than money. He never tired of explaining how shots were done, which creatures were real and which were mechanical, all the stunts and pitfalls and pleasures in comic work.

On the bright side, he mused bitterly, his collection was complete now. He just hoped that whatever had possessed the parents to go after the horror comics he liked would never spread to his own workplace. The last thing they needed was a horde of angry, self-righteous parents descending on their studio.

"I'm sorry about this, Mr. Crane," said Paul Whitlock. "You were a good customer. But business is business, you understand."

"Oh, yes," Crane hissed, just softly enough to cloak the disappointment and confusion he felt, as well as an uncomfortable sense of foreboding. "I understand." He didn't want to leave empty-handed, apparently, since he did buy three _Batman_ comics, but he never did come back.


	5. Curiouser and Curiouser

**Curiouser and Curiouser**

_"But I don't want to go among mad people," Alice remarked._

_"Oh, you can't help that," said the Cat: "we're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad."_

_"How do you know I'm mad?" said Alice._

_"You must be," said the Cat, "or you wouldn't have come here."_

- Lewis Carroll, _Alice In Wonderland_

* * *

Over the next few days, there weren't many changes in Jonathan's mood. He'd explained what he'd learned at the comic stand to the other C-listers, of course. However, he was discouraged when no one seemed concerned or upset. Some of them thought that he was trying to rile his coworkers up like he had a tendency to. That was the trouble with one's abilities revolving around fear. Eventually, even he decided that it wasn't worth the effort and returned to life as usual.

Basil also noticed that he was becoming more friendly with Jervis, slowly but surely. He didn't let Jervis in his room or handle his books, of course. The Mad Hatter was, more or less, initiated into the old crowd now. Harvey gave him the nod. The rest of the group partly and rightly suspected that Jervis was using Jonathan as bully protection. Since the English actor was rather cowardly off the job, it was surprising that he'd turn to Crane as a source of help. The real situation was a little more complicated.

As he was happy to point out, Crane liked his privacy and found Jervis extremely annoying. However, he was more or less the only person Jonathan couldn't easily scare. He was just too oblivious to be frightened away. At first Jonathan had considered Jervis a pest and an irritant, who always sat next to him in the cafeteria and filled his ear with stupid questions. But he had a grudging respect for Tetch, who refused to be driven away by threats or sarcasm, his usual method of getting rid of unwanted company. Besides, talking with Jervis was a way to get around his problem with getting re-used. That and his lessons.

Hugo Strange had taught him all manner of things – how to glare properly, how to reflect light off his glasses so that no one could see his eyes, how to laugh, how to swagger and strut. It seemed that there was a right and wrong way to do everything. Memorizing all of Strange's rules was near impossible, but the old actor's offered reward of a gimmick kept him going. His notebooks, which he used to help him keep track of his coworkers' phobias, filled up with notes and schedules instead. His standard way of searching out fear was trial and error, eavesdropping on conversations, that kind of thing. It worked, but was very slow and he risked being caught. Besides, the other actors were now very wary about discussing their fears, especially when they suspected that Jonathan Crane was around - and with good reason. A more efficient method would be very useful, and was hopefully what Strange had to offer.

He put his _Tales from the Crypt _collection, now complete, in a special bookcase in his shared room. He sometimes took one out to browse it and remember his old excursions. He'd certainly come a long way. His conversation with Professor Strange had reminded him of his past and what he'd managed to escape from. Back in Georgia he'd been a joke. Now, or at least until recently, people stepped aside when they saw him, and his reputation preceded him. It reminded him why he'd come to Los Angeles in the first place. It wasn't just money, although life on the run lost its appeal when he'd had to live off spare change and cheap food. He'd wanted respect, too.

New city, new start, new life. No traces of the past. Gerald Crane and Karen and Mary Keeny could stay in Arlen and rot. No one would remember them. It was their bastard son, the accident, who had spent most of his childhood cowering and being beaten, who would be the famous comic star. Things had a funny way of working out. Still, the thought of revenge was tempting. He had scenarios worked in his head, prepared in case Arlen trailed him to California.

It would be like Gerald to find his son, now with a career and good money, and try and mooch off of Jonathan's earned fame. Jonathan would pretend to listen to him, remind Gerald of how he'd betrayed him and the woman he'd used, and then laugh before showing his father the door. If he'd wanted Jonathan to be generous, he should have been willing to stay behind and face the consequences of what he'd done. Tit for tat.

As for Karen, his personal script was similar: she'd hear of him in the papers, or running interviews on the news, and come to beg forgiveness. He'd refuse, of course, but he'd see her squirm first, blubbering apologies and making excuses. Then he'd say, ever so calmly, that she should have thought about that before she dumped him with someone as cruel as Mary Keeny. She did save his life, so he wouldn't be as hard on her as Gerald.

His feelings toward Marion were almost as bad as they were towards his great-grandmother. People tend not to look favorably on the person who casually suggested drowning them when they were still helpless babies. There he was, healthy, reasonably well-off, and definitely not drowned. He'd let her see him, of course, just to see what her accident, who she'd wanted to discard and destroy like an unwanted puppy, had changed into.

Despite what the rest of his workmates thought, he didn't see himself as a bully. While he liked to scare for practice's sake he, along with most off-duty supervillains, drew the line at actually harming other people. He actually despised people who beat up the weak for fun. If people treated him fairly and didn't prejudge him based on his job, interests, or clothes, he'd be reasonable in return.

Most of all, it made a nice change for the boy who could see his own ribcage to go to sleep every night with the warmth and comfort of a full stomach. He was still thin, and that would probably never change thanks to a light appetite and a lightning-quick metabolism, but it felt good to have real food inside him anyway.

That was why he wanted to fix his career. He enjoyed the good life and wanted to keep it. The news he'd gotten from Whitlock at the comic stand had been disturbing, but maybe it was a temporary thing. Sometimes things like that happened. Movies had been censored fairly heavily a while ago, and he was personally amazed that nothing had been imposed on his film crew yet.

His pencil snapped, and he frowned. He really ought to focus on his job. He worked better when he wasn't distracted. He put away the journal he was writing in and got up, stretching. Basil was away. He wouldn't be back for a few hours, leaving the room for Jonathan's use. He considered turning on the television to see what was on, but decided against it. It wasn't the same without Basil Karlo around.

Instead he grabbed his old copy of _Ulysses_ and found a chair. He didn't know how many times he'd read it. In many ways it was more of a trophy in memory of his victory than anything else. But still, reading about the adventures of Leopold Bloom, Irishman, was a good way to pass the time. Besides, he had his own, deeper reasons for liking the book.

* * *

_Flush from his first week at work, clutching a fistful of bills, he came to the bookstore in search of one book in particular. He would have plenty of time to gather up more, but this one was needed for completion's sake. Bad memories were associated with it. It was rather sad, if he thought a little deeper about it. If a thirteen-year-old boy was caught reading a copy of _Ulysses _borrowed from the local library, freshly un-banned, most places would treat the child like a prodigy. He'd be moved up a grade, get respect from his peers, and be paraded around Georgia by his family as a local genius._

_But no, not Arlen. Arlen didn't have any respect for anyone who deviated from the norm._

_He'd lied to Strange a little for sympathy. He did have a handful of allies in the schoolhouse and outside - fellow outcasts, victims of abuse from their parents and society. Sympathetic children knew he didn't get enough to eat at home, and would swap sandwiches in exchange for his help with reading. The few good memories he had included lounging under an old sugar maple just outside school with an open book and a stomach as full as it could ever be. Of course, these things often went wrong, as they did on that particular day._

_Everyone knew his favorite spots, including people he didn't particularly care to see. He recognized them and got up to go, preferring to avoid a fight, but was grabbed roughly and shoved to the ground. His main concern was the book. It was borrowed, not bought, and he had very little money to pay the fine if it was destroyed. He threw himself over it. They said things, taunting things, bookworm and freak, but he only wanted to protect the book. He'd chosen it out of curiosity after learning that it had only recently been declared legal after a lengthy court hearing. He liked it. He felt deliciously scandalous reading it._

_The tallest of the bullies, a brown-haired boy who played for their school team, grabbed him by the shirt collar and shoved him aside. He came back, hearing grudging comments on his bravery. He got to his full height, making a dive for the precious Joyce under the tree. When he stood, book under one arm, a fist smashed him in the face. He wiped his sleeve against his nose. Blood. In pain and confused, he made a run for it, blood from his fingers getting on _Ulysses_ and staining its pages._

_He had to go home. Not that he wanted to - he'd read just enough of the Great Banned Novel to learn why it was banned. He wouldn't get any sympathy from the harpy who roosted in the house and threw her shadow over his life. Mary Keeny, who only let him read the Bible at home, wouldn't tolerate it. He had once pointed out to her the amount of sex and violence in the Old Testament and his stomach had felt the consequences. But he had no choice. Maybe he could hide the book, slip it in one of the secret places in his room, make sure she didn't find it._

_Wishful thinking. He didn't even make it past the front door before she saw him. There was no getting past her. _Ulysses _was grabbed from his hands. He cried out, struggled, pleaded, explained that the Joyce wasn't his, but watched helplessly as the precious book, worth twenty dollars in fine money, was thrown in the fireplace and set alight._

_There wasn't anything to bother saving from the fire when she was done. She kept an eye on him to make sure he didn't try to pull the book from the flames. Then he was grabbed roughly by the neck, crying, and taken to the church where the crows waited. His memories of that night were of blood, feathers, and ripping claws. He hadn't slept when he came back, sitting in his bed, stomach growling, wondering how a book like the Bible, with such eloquent words about peace and love, could turn someone so cruel._

_Eight years later, as a grown man, he'd come to his favorite bookstore in San Francisco to buy a replacement copy of _Ulysses_ of his very own, a pretty hardback with a beautiful cover. This time, no one would burn it. He read it all the way through with the thrilled delight of a child who knew he was doing something terribly naughty and ought to be punished. But there would be no punishments, not for him._

_Never again._

* * *

There was a knock on the door, and he put the book down, marking his place. He didn't like being bothered while reading, and his coworkers had learned that very quickly. Who would be clueless enough to interrupt him? He muttered an oath as he went to get the door. My, he had slipped into some bad habits. If Mary Keeny could see him now, she'd die of a heart attack.

"Hello, Jonny!" Of course. Jervis. The other actor didn't know what privacy was, and it was impossible for Crane to chase him out. "How are you doing?" Crane stared at him, blue eyes not blinking once, willing the nut to leave. It was an old trick he'd perfected back in Arlen. He had to blink eventually, of course, but not for a good while, and usually people didn't make it through fifteen seconds of being stared at by Jonathan Crane.

Jervis, of course, wasn't fazed. "What's wrong? Something in your eyes? Need some water?"

Jonathan abandoned the plan. It was pointless, anyway. Tetch wouldn't go away whatever he did. "What are you doing here?"

"Just wanted to say hello, like friends do." Jervis entered, putting his hat on Basil's work desk. He whistled when he saw Crane's collection. "My, that there's pretty impressive. Mind if I get a closer look?"

"Yes, I –" Crane's protests didn't do any good as soon as Jervis noticed a certain book beside _The Legend of Sleepy Hollow_. "That copy of _Alice in Wonderland _must be more than eighty years old. Can I have it? I'm a great fan of Lewis Carroll, you see, I have all his books, and this would be a lovely addition to my collection. _Through the Looking Glass_, _Jabberwocky_, and _The_ _Hunting of the Snark_."

Crane noticed the book, too. He had guessed as much, considering the motif Jervis had signed up with. "None of my books are for sale. Now go away."

"But I need it for my collection," Jervis protested. "Do you know how long I've been looking for a first edition copy of _Alice in Wonderland_? Years, even back home in England. Can I have it? Please?"

"I told you, I don't give away or sell any of my books. I paid good money for these." Crane folded his skinny arms. "However, if you want it that badly and won't leave me alone until I hand it over, there is a way. I'll offer you a trade."

"A trade? Oh, thank you, Jonny, thank you!" Jervis rubbed his gloved hands together and went to fetch his hat. "Here, let me invite you into my room to see what I have to offer. It's not too far from here. With any luck, my roommate will be out."

"Who is your roommate? Anyone I know?" Crane hoped it wasn't someone like Waylon Jones. There was still quite a bit of bad feeling between him and Killer Croc. He was fairly certain that Waylon had just threatened to rip his head off to make him go away, but he didn't want to take any chances.

"No. It's Humphrey Dumpler. Humpty Dumpty. He's less fun than I thought he'd be. A terrible neat freak, and he's got quite the temper. I like you a lot more." Jervis led the way, remarking that he'd noticed how Crane himself was a bit cagey for someone who liked scaring people for fun. "I'm very glad you saved me from Lynns. Firefly's left me alone ever since you started protecting me."

"Don't mention it. Doesn't mean I'll do it again."

"You always say that," Jervis chortled, "but you did come when I needed you. I've been wondering why you helped me if you're as mean as they say."

"I hate Lynns more than I hate you, that's all," Jonathan stated. "I don't have any friends."

"You say that, but you like Harvey and Eddie enough to go where they go and listen to them. I think I know what your problem is." Jonathan's partway casual attitude disappeared. "Someone was hard on you when you were little, I'd wager."

"How did you know that?" Crane spat, barely holding himself back from ramming the smaller man against a wall. His blue eyes almost flashed with betrayal and outrage. "Hugo Strange told me, no, promised me that he wouldn't tell! Who told you about my past, Tetch?"

"No one. I figured it out myself. You left little clues: your dislike of drink, the way Basil said you stuffed yourself on your first night here, the way you try too hard not to look scared. You're very edgy for a fellow who likes to scare other people for fun. From the way you acted around Crawson and how suspicious you are around other people, I suspected you'd had it rough. That's why I came. You can trust me. We're both from out of town. You from Georgia, me from England. I learned my trade in the music halls of London." Jervis smiled, opening the door to his room, Number Six. "But I thought that these newfangled comic book things sounded interesting, so I got a boat and came over here."

Crane didn't say anything, instead looking inside. Humphrey Dumpler wasn't there, which was just as well. Instead, the place was neatly divided in two, a literal line drawn down the middle. Humphrey's side of the room was spotless, but Jervis's side was an absolute mess, littered with pieces of music and discarded playscripts. True to his word, he had a bookshelf absolutely crammed with copies of Lewis Carroll books and poetry. There was even a poster for the Disney version of _Alice in Wonderland_ above his bed, decorated with a cheerful Mad Hatter and March Hare. Knowing Jervis, he'd probably been one of the first people in the theaters when the film came out.

"Feel free to look at my collection," Jervis announced, pointing to the bookshelf. Crane ignored the offer. His only interest in his own copy of _Alice in Wonderland_ was its age and its value as a collector's item. Now that it was a potential bargaining chip, this was his chance to acquire something more directly useful. Instead he started examining the playscripts and music sheets, sorting through them one at a time. At last he found what he wanted, showing it to Jervis.

"My, what's this? Oh, I forgot I had that. _The Threepenny Opera_. Brecht. Gruesome stuff." He noticed that Jonathan, as he read through the play, was grinning. "Uh, you want that?"

"Yes. Wait for a moment while I fetch my copy of _Alice in Wonderland_. I think we have a deal." Jonathan darted back through the door, still clutching the playscript, and returned with his own book. "Whatever my faults, I'm a man of my word." He handed Jervis the first edition copy. "Karlo might have heard of this. I'll have to ask him. It's very good."

"Well, it's all yours. I don't really want it. Nasty, nasty play. Full of cynicism and murder and all that horrible stuff you seem to like. Hope you enjoy it. You might want these, too. It's a musical, y'see." Jervis gave Crane a bundle of music sheets. "Take them. You're welcome to 'em." Remembering the trade, he lowered his top hat a little in respect. "Oh, and thank you for the book. Always wanted one." Crane didn't reply outside of a simple nod, vanishing with _The Threepenny Opera_ still under his arm. Jervis slipped the book in his shelf. "What a curious fellow. Wonder what he saw in that horrid thing?"

* * *

Karlo, when he came back, was immediately introduced to the newest book in Jonathan's collection. He was a film actor, never a theater man, but he knew what it was. He was not in the least bit surprised that Jonathan liked _The Threepenny Opera_. It certainly suited his friend's tastes. Crane carefully slid it in place, making a note of where it was. He wanted to read it as soon as possible.

"Brecht was a Communist, you know," Basil commented, then added, joking, "If the House of Un-American Activities people come knocking, Jonathan, you are aware that I'll have to inform against you for this."

"So what? He wrote good plays, at least from what I've seen." Crane winked devilishly. "Read only a little bit, but what I've read I like. They don't make 'em like this any more." He got back in his chair, fiddling with a bit of broken wood. "You know, whatever they say about Jervis Tetch, I can personally testify that he isn't as stupid as he acts."

Basil hadn't seen much of Jervis in person, but did know that Jonathan had gotten involved with the other man at the festival. They'd certainly be an odd couple of friends. Pessimistic, morbid, sarcastic Jonathan Crane alongside loony, cheerful Jervis Tetch. He wondered what the two could possibly have in common. Who knows? Maybe he'd find out later.

"Got any news for me?" Jonathan added, almost too cheerfully.

"There's an audition tonight down in Room 213. Oswald Cobblepot's heading it. He's offering people who haven't been used much lately a chance to be on stage. There's a talent show…"

"Cobblepot?" Jonathan, to put it bluntly, hated Oswald Cobblepot with every fiber in him. Despite barely coming up to Jonathan's chest, Oswald was a terrible snob, constantly teasing Crane about his outdated clothes and how unoriginal the villain alias "Scarecrow" was. He himself dressed in immaculately clean tuxedos, smoked the freshest cigarettes, and ate caviar in the cafeteria, flaunting his status every chance he got. Of course, this was coming from a man whose stage name was "The Penguin". Hardly the stuff of nightmares. Jonathan's other issue with Cobblepot was that the man had essentially paid his way into stardom, instead of getting in through skill. For Jonathan, who'd risen up from bullied, abused youth with barely any money to his name to the terror of the studio, this was just insulting. Lex Luthor was bad, but he didn't have to put up with Lex every day of his workweek. "I'm not interested."

"This could be your chance, Crane. Everyone is doing it. Jervis is putting on a comedy skit for two. Eddie's writing up a standup act. Most of our coworkers will be there. You'll be able to stand out and get a good amount of money if you win. You could use some spare change."

Jonathan had to admit that Basil was right. He could use the attention, and it would be a way to get his mind off his trouble with being re-hired for comic work. Besides, he could use a chance to show up that snotty Cobblepot. "How do I join the show? I might have an act for Oswald. If I'm taking part, I aim to win first place." Crane grabbed _The Threepenny Opera_ and shoved it under his right arm. "Take me to Cobblepot. I'm looking forward to showing that waddling tub of lard just what the Scarecrow is capable of." He gave his best, most confident sneer.

"Looking forward to it," Basil told him, and he offered a toothy smile that they found less than comforting.

It had been a long time since he'd gotten the chance to be onstage, and he didn't want to waste it. The play that he'd recently swapped for with Tetch might just be the answer to his problems. Oh, yes, he'd enjoy himself for sure, especially if it meant getting a bit of revenge on Oswald Cobblepot. Besides, it was his chance to prove to the studio that he was still Jonathan Crane, Master of Fear. That fact alone made Crane want to put on a show so amazing and so terrifying that nothing could hide the fact that his act was the best, plain and simple.

The only real challenge he'd face would be learning how to sing.

* * *

Unlike most of his coworkers, Oswald Cobblepot had his own room, big and tidy, paintings on the wall and a 19th century statue in the right corner. One of his paintings, his favorite, was a painting of Ganymede and Jupiter's eagle that he'd bought off an auction in England. Being rich had its uses.

Whenever he wasn't searching the art market for new pieces, favoring those of an avian theme, he was usually found lounging in his favorite chair, admiring his room, lord of all he surveyed. He was affable enough to people he deemed worthy of his respect. He'd had a very busy day collecting recruits for his talent show, located at a nightclub some distance into town, owned by a friend of his.

The last thing he wanted was for some fool to wake him up. He had this thought in mind when someone outside started banging on his door like a madman. Muttering under his breath, Oswald stood up on his short legs, beaklike nose turned to the ceiling.

"Good heavens, who is it? I was sleeping, you know. That was very rude of you." He opened the door, letting in an all-too-familiar figure, who had to duck to enter the short door.

Tall, painfully thin, ridiculously ragged and outdated clothes. There was no mistaking who his guest was. It was rare that Oswald got a visit from Jonathan Crane, not the least because he thought that Crane was an uplifted hick with no artistic sensibilities. Well, he had to hear the fellow out, if only to get rid of him faster.

"Yes, Jonathan? What do you want? I'm a very busy man, you know."

"Busy with what?" Crane retorted rudely. "Sleeping?" That was what Oswald hated most about the man. Apparently they hadn't taught him manners down in Alabama or Mississippi or whatever swamp he'd crawled out of. It was impossible to hold a civil conversation with him. When he wasn't trying to spook people, he was appallingly rude and obnoxious.

"For your information, sir, I am getting ready for the show in three days. Checking that everyone's signed up. We've got Jervis Tetch, Humphrey Dumpler, Garfield Lynns, Edward Nygma, Paul Dekker, Cameron van Cleer, Mortimer Drake, Monk, Carl Kruger, Henry Ross and the Tweeds. A good lot." Oswald presented a sheet of paper. "Now, I ask you again, what do you want? I don't have all day, you are aware."

"I want you to add another name. Mine. I'm taking part in your talent show." Jonathan examined the sheet, grabbing a pencil to sign his name. Oswald quickly snatched it back.

"How impatient you are, Crane! It's a virtue, you know. I'll sign you up if you insist. I don't want to turn anyone down, and I know you're hardly in the position to refuse, either. I know you've been having trouble finding work. That's one of the advantages of being as rich as I am. We have eyes everywhere."

"Cut the gloating, Cobblepot." Jonathan knelt to match Oswald's height. "I'm here to talk business. I have an act." He slammed a playscript down on the birdlike man's desk. "See this play?"

Oswald picked it up, running it over. _The Threepenny Opera_. Typical Crane morbidity. Everything a normal person found horrible and repulsive, Jonathan adored. Oswald found his tastes most revolting. But he needed more acts, and here Jonathan was offering his services.

"Yes? What is it? I have to know what you'll do before I find a place for you in the scheduling."

Jonathan straightened out that atrocious coat before answering, taking a deep breath first. "I'll be singing a piece from the play, 'Mack the Knife'."

Of course he would. Crane was so predictable. "Right, then. Jonathan Crane, performing a selection from _The Threepenny Opera_. You're after Tetch and before the Mad Monk. Thank you for signing up for our first C-lister talent show, Mr. Crane. Your contribution is appreciated."

"You're welcome," Crane replied, with an outwardly polite nod. Neither of them meant it, of course. Jonathan looked forward to showing up Oswald in the show, while Oswald hoped to see Crane, who he knew from experience was an incompetent singer, humiliate himself.

"We're running auditions tomorrow. See you there." Oswald handed back the pencil, letting Jonathan sign the sheet. "After that, you have three days to get your act straight. Then it's showtime."


	6. Stage Fright

**Stage Fright**

_Full twenty times was Peter feared,  
For once that Peter was respected._

**- **William Wordsworth, _Peter Bell_

* * *

The audition, as expected, was made up of a colorful crowd of C-list supervillains. Paul Dekker, clad in his trademark costume, white with a mess of red, blue, green, and yellow, stood beside the podium. He was demonstrating his ability to paint with his eyes shut, impressing a couple of extra spectators. He called it a landscape, but it looked more like a pile of green, shapeless blobs with blue blobs above and beneath it and a yellow smudge somewhere in the upper left corner.

"Can you tell me what in heaven's name that's supposed to be?" Jonathan Crane, wearing his ratty brown coat and vest for the occasion, bent to examine the picture, none too impressed. "Is that a painting, or was someone sick on the easel?"

"This," Dekker replied, nose turned up, "is a forest scene. That's a river, and there's the sun right up there. I know you need glasses, but surely you couldn't miss that. _Forest Scene With River_."

"Ah. I thought your brush had slipped. My mistake."

"You know what, Crane?" Dekker was getting annoyed. He'd put a lot of effort into _Daylight Forest Scene With River_. "You are an uncultured philistine. You don't understand the meaning of True Art. When my paintings sell for hundreds of dollars fifty years from now, you will be sorry."

Jonathan shook his head, offended. "No, I like art. I have a fondness for Pieter Bruegel the Elder and Hieronymus Bosch. Their paintings of hell are magnificent. Bruegel's _Mad Meg_ and Bosch's _Garden of_ _Earthly Delights_. I don't know what that is, but it's not art."

"That's because you don't understand it. People like you always think culture's going to hell. Every artist has to deal with ignoramuses and naysayers. You are looking at a future masterpiece. After I win the talent show, I'll put it up on auction."

"Dekker, you're delusional. If all the competition's like you, I've got this audition in the bag."

"You're from Georgia. Of course you don't get Art," Dekker replied snootily, and Crane gritted his teeth. "Add on a few years, and I bet you'll be in the auctions to buy my paintings along with everyone else. At least I can hold a second job." No good to start a fight here, but someone was going to wake up with a cockroach in his bed. Dekker, with an annoyed grunt, went back to showing off his painting to the extras. One looked impressed, but the other was clearly humoring him.

"If you didn't want my opinion," Jonathan called out to him, "you shouldn't have asked me what I thought, eh?" Crazy Quilt didn't reply, and Jonathan groaned. "Fine, but when you lose don't blame me for it."

Some distance away, Eddie Nygma was practicing his stand-up act while Selina Kyle, her brother Karl, and Cameron van Cleer watched. The latter was posing beside a barbell, flexing his muscles aggressively. For a supervillain who was already a punchline in many a joke around the studio, Cameron, alias Killer Moth, had quite the ego. It helped that he had less brains than he thought he did. Cameron thought the manliest thing in the world was to show up on set dressed as a giant moth. No man, sane or not, would walk around in that costume. The studio must've been desperate for recruits when they let him in. Like most of his coworkers, Crane liked making fun of Killer Moth more than Killer Moth himself. A man of Cameron's faux machismo was asking for it. It had become a common joke among the lower-tier villains to say, "At least I'm not Killer Moth."

Cameron had an act, too. Lifting weights, naturally, even though underneath his gaudy costume he was as weedy as Crane. He spent most of his time off hours acting tough, watching sports on cable, and drinking beer. It was actually kind of sad. The actor had clearly underestimated his own weightlifting ability, struggling and straining in an effort to lift the barbell. On his rest break, he decided to talk to Crane, who for his part needed some amusement.

"Hey, Jonny, old pal, heard you were havin' trouble findin' a comic job," he began, trying to put an arm around Jonathan's shoulder. Jonathan darted aside, and Cameron got the point. "Have you considered tryin' to toughen yourself up? Get a bit of muscle? If you ask me, you've been needin' it for a long time comin'."

"I like the way I am," Jonathan retorted.

"C'mon," Cameron pleaded, "you're a man. I'm a man. I can help you out. Football's on pretty soon, and I'm on Team LA. Go Rams!"

"Don't like football, don't care who wins."

Cameron decided to try again. "How 'bout wrestling? Everyone loves wrestling!"

"Not me. I don't see the appeal of big sweaty men beating each other to a bloody pulp. Or, as I strongly suspect, pretending to."

"You're just saying that because you wouldn't last five seconds in the ring with someone like Waylon or me," Cameron sneered. "I mean, who reads actual books these days? Where are you from, Mars?"

"Better than sitting in a chair and drinking stale beer," Jonathan replied, irritated. "Besides, I would advise against picking a fight with me. Your tough act doesn't work. Give it up. You're about as tough as Mortimer Drake."

In an instant, a colorfully dressed figure in a cavalier's hat and orange robes sprang up from his chair, drew a rapier from his side, and pointed it at Jonathan's chest. "Have at ye, knave, for insulting the masculinity of the valiant Cavalier! Take back your insult or taste my steel!" Jonathan didn't say anything, and Mortimer Drake got a little closer. "You are brave, miscreant, but draw your weapon or I will run you through!" Crane, not threatened at all, faked a yawn and didn't move.

"I'm afraid to say I don't have a sword. It's not a fair duel if I can't fight back, now, is it?" Jonathan leaned against the wall, remarkably casually for someone with a sword at his throat. Then again, Mortimer Drake had done this kind of thing before. He got a little too into the role of the Cavalier, partly because it was fun and partly because he liked randomly challenging people to duels for annoying him. He'd never actually harmed anyone, which was why Crane was taunting him.

"You are right, villain. It would not be chivalrous to stab an unarmed opponent." Mortimer lowered his rapier. "What do you say we call this match a draw?"

"Fine. It's a draw. Better yet, I forfeit. You beat me. Now run along and get back to the other musketeers, D'Artagnan."

Mortimer noticed that everyone in the room was staring at him and cautiously put back his sword, letting Jonathan go. "You have seen the consequences of offending the Cavalier! Now, go, dog, or I will not be so lenient a second time."

"Can you tell me what this is all about, Drake? I came here to audition for Cobblepot's stupid talent show, not to have a swordfight with you. I'm a sharpshooter, not a swordsman."

"Oh." Mortimer swung his sword, giving a few slashes to the air. "It's part of my act. I'm fencing with Cobblepot for the grand finale. As for me, I'm just showing off for the girls."

"Oh, hello, Jonny. We heard you were coming to join us. It's a pleasure to work alongside you again." One of the Tweed cousins, Deever by the looks of him, took an awkward bow, unable to touch his toes. The Tweeds had been around since the war days, practically identical and equally irritating, the Rosencrantz and Guildenstern of the studio. Well, if Rosencrantz and Guildenstern were morbidly obese, impossible to tell apart, and had a terrible sense of humor.

"Thank you, Deever," Jonathan replied, although not as enthusiastically as the cousins had hoped.

"No, no, you've got it wrong," the other cousin interrupted. "_I'm_ Deever. He's Dumfree."

Jonathan shrugged, not bothered by his mistake. "Whatever. Do you two have an act planned?"

"'Course we do," Dumfree said, faking snobbery. "Knock-knock jokes."

"Interesting," Crane replied acidly, the sarcasm lost on them. Sarcasm was wasted on the stupid, even if it did numb the blow a little. "Knock-knock jokes. How delightfully original."

"Well, excuse us for being polite," snapped Deever. They hadn't expected him to like their act and could care less. As for Crane's opinion, he left them alone on Jervis's request, but thought that they had a frustrating lack of independence. One cousin never disagreed with the other. It was actually kind of unsettling, and not in the way he liked. Either they were stupid, incapable of making their own decisions, or both. His current leanings were towards the former.

He saw Jervis off in the corner, attempting to coach the bulky, egg-headed Humphrey Dumpler to respond to his cues for the script. Dumpler's copy lay off to the side, crumpled up and discarded. Apparently Tetch's teaching efforts weren't getting very far. Dumpler looked very, very bored. Jervis was as enthusiastic as usual, but his enthusiasm was strained beneath the cheerful mask he wore.

"Look, Humphrey, unless you get this right Cobblepot won't let us in the show. You want to get in, don't you?"

"Not really. Joining the talent show was your idea. I don't care." Humphrey coughed. "I don't know why you went to me. You have awful taste in friends, and your side of the room is a mess. I'm seriously considering applying for a room change. Hopefully you'll end up with that creep you've been spending all your time with recently. There's a very good reason Jonny-boy doesn't have friends. He scared them all away. Then again, it makes sense for the freaks to hang out together." Crane clenched his fists, resisting the urge to charge in. He didn't like people who talked about him when he wasn't there. To be sure, fighting Dumpler would be difficult. Although inexperienced and dull, Humphrey had brute strength, and even with the element of surprise on his side Crane wouldn't usually stand a chance against the other man. But he didn't like the way Humphrey was talking to Jervis.

"I would advise that you not speak that way about people," he hissed, stepping out of the shadows, using the stage lights to cover his eyes behind his glasses as Hugo Strange had taught him. "You never know who might be listening."

"What're you gonna do about it, beanpole?" Humphrey smirked. "You're one of us. A C-lister. Stop actin' all high-and-mighty. Killer Moth's been in more comics than you. Now get out of here."

"I was considering until you called me 'beanpole'. That wasn't a very good idea. Now, consider this a warning. This is a talent show audition, not a wrestling match. I don't like to fight face-to-face."

"Probably 'cause you know I'd completely smash you. You're smart. Don't want that brain of yours staining the floor."

"Ah, death threats. How original. I was wondering when we'd get to that point. Speaking of brains, I'm guessing how many are in that big, dense egg-shaped head of yours."

Humphrey lost his temper completely, and Jervis scurried away with his own copy of the script to alert Karlo. "Let's see who's laughing when I'm through with you, you dirty bastard!"

That did it. Before that remark, Crane had been more-or-less playing with Humphrey like usual until the word "bastard" was used. Now all bets were off. The other talent show auditionees watched the tall, skinny man charge at Humphrey Dumpler, knock him to the floor, and use his long limbs to unleash surprisingly vicious blows. Everyone assumed at first that Dumpler's bulk would give him the edge and that Crane had just gotten himself killed. To their surprise, the lean actor was actually winning the fight, frustrating Dumpler by stepping aside to avoid punches before leaping.

"No one calls me that! No one! No one!" Dumpler tried to shove his attacker off and pin him down, but Jonathan was too quick for him, punching and kicking every inch of the other man he could lay hands on while dodging Humpty Dumpty's blows. It took Basil Karlo, Jervis, and both Tweeds to pull Jonathan off of Humphrey, still screeching threats and lashing out. "He started that! Did you hear what he called me? _Did you hear what he called me_?"

"It's true what they say about you," panted Humphrey, wiping his bloody nose. "What the hell is wrong with him? He just went completely insane."

"You _did_ call him a bastard," Jervis pointed out. "Maybe it's a personal thing? I don't know how his mind works."

Jonathan, whose anger had calmed down a little, took a few breaths to cool himself off. "I'm all in favor of making up. Never call me that word again and we won't have any trouble. Agreed, Humphrey? And I'd suggest being a little nicer to Jervis here. I'll have an eye on you to make sure you do."

"All in favor," said Dumfree Tweed (or was it Deever?), "that never happened." Humphrey agreed, using a hand to wipe his nose clean, and Crane dusted himself off. No one wanted to jeopardize the talent show just because of a spat between two auditionees. The look in the egg-headed man's eye, however, said something else entirely.

"How did you do that?" Jervis whispered, impressed. "I mean, going crazy on Humpty like you did. That was brilliant. He deserved it, if you ask me. He's a real brute. Worse than Lynns."

"Martial arts. Crane-style kung fu, with a few special touches of my own. Been teaching it to myself off the job - I spend most of my free time antagonizing people larger and stronger than me, and it's a good idea to have a backup plan ready in case things go wrong." Jonathan sighed, suddenly feeling very drained from the fight. "He reminded me of the bullies I used to know in school. I lost my temper. Wasn't thinking clearly."

"People bullied you?" Jervis was astonished. "Pretty stupid bullies, then. I'd hate to see you fight when you're thinking." Crane nodded silently in agreement. "Well, ah, that was the second time you've stood up for me."

"It wasn't because of you. Dumpler insulted me. I can only be pushed so far."

"I'd believe that if you hadn't stepped in before he called you, well, you know. I wish I had a new roomie. Humphrey isn't very nice to me, y'see." Jervis sighed. "Well, I'd better join up with him again. I'll ask Cobblepot if I can have a different partner. I can't do the act without someone helping me." He tipped his hat. "Well, thanks again for the help. And don't worry about Humphrey. His rages don't usually last very long."

"If he's smart," Crane remarked, "he won't mess with me again. I won't go so easy on him next time. Professor Strange is teaching me some new tricks."

"Ooh. What kind of new tricks?" Jervis clasped his hands together excitedly. "I knew you were up to something."

"It's strictly confidential until the next time I'm hired for a comic. I want to surprise everyone." Crane gave a quick, wicked smile.

"Good for you. I'm off, then. Hope you've got your act ready. Still doing Brecht, eh? Grisly stuff." Jervis shuddered. "Knowing you, you probably think it's brilliant."

"Indeed." Crane reached into his coat to check that the playscript was safe. It was, thankfully, outside from a few torn pages. "I'll have to read more of his work."

"Save it for Oswald. He's the one you need to impress." Jervis waved and disappeared to find Humpty Dumpty. Crane, deciding that it would be better to avoid the bulky supervillain for a while, joined the crowd gathering around Mortimer. He slunk in, unnoticed, beside Basil Karlo.

"Hello."

Basil jumped before realizing who had startled him. "Oh. It's just you, Jonathan. Didn't I ask you not to do that?" Crane shrugged, his smile positively ghoulish.

"So, what's going on? Are you in?"

"You're on after a few more acts. So far everyone's in but the Tweeds and Cameron van Cleer. Cobblepot didn't like their knock-knock joke act, and Cameron couldn't even lift his weights."

"Neither did I." Crane froze, realizing the implications of this. "You mean Paul Dekker got in? With that terrible painting he did?"

"Yes."

Crane muttered something about how no one appreciated effort these days and sat back to watch Jervis try and pull off his comedy skit. To put it bluntly, it was hilarious, but not in the way that Jervis had probably wanted. Humphrey simply couldn't match the cues, flubbing his lines and ignoring his partner's urgent hand signals. Jervis tried to stay calm, but it was a losing battle. In the end, the crowd was laughing as he struggled to fix their act, doing the work of two. Even Crane joined in until Basil nudged him in the side. After the show was finished, Oswald called Jervis over for a private talk as Humpty shuffled off, shooting Jonathan a vicious look. Jonathan, far from afraid, looked right back with twice the venom.

"Would you give it a rest?" Basil hissed in his ear. "Whatever he said, he didn't know it meant whatever it means to you."

"I will," Crane replied, "as soon as he lets it go. I'll leave him alone, but if he goes after me or Jervis again I can't promise that. I admit to being a bit of a bully, but I prefer going after people who start it. It's much more satisfying that way."

"Can't you let the thing with Selina go? That was thirteen years ago. Long time to hold a grudge."

"What can I say? Crows have long memories." He was interrupted when Jervis leapt down from the stage to join them. Basil shuffled aside while Jonathan stayed still. Jervis looked more worried than depressed.

"Cobblepot turned down your comedy act?" Basil asked, concerned. "I don't know why. If Dekker got in…"

"No. He didn't. It's much worse than that. I did enough to get by. Humphrey was removed from the show because he didn't bother to learn any of the lines. He refused to learn – said he was afraid of being attacked by crazy people." Jonathan straightened a little. At least someone was afraid of him now. "I need a new partner. Someone who can think fast and has a good memory."

Jonathan backed up, nearly hitting his head against the chair behind him. "What are you looking at me for, Tetch? I don't _do_ humor. Go find someone else. There is no way I'll degrade myself by being funny. I'm having enough problems being taken seriously. The last thing I need is to be a joke off the job."

"Please?" Jervis pleaded, practically on his knees. Jonathan found it strangely pathetic. The man had no shame. "I'll make it fun, I promise. I can't do my act without a straight man."

"No means no, Jervis Tetch. I already have my own act to take care of." Jervis made to reply, but an announcement from Cobblepot on the stage ended the argument before it began.

"Next up: Mr. Jonathan Crane, performing a selection from _The Threepenny Opera_." When Crane heard his name, he stood up and got onto the stage, his long, lanky frame a striking contrast to Cobblepot's short, pudgy one. "Let's see what you can do, eh?" Oswald whispered so that only Crane could hear.

Crane gave the little man a knowing glance and smirked. "I plan to."

He cleared his throat, gave Eddie a cocky nod, and began to sing. He was aiming for a silky whisper to fit the already eerie themes of the song (it was, after all, about a murderous criminal), but what came out instead was a rasp. He wasn't sure if that was his natural voice or not. Maybe he should have had a drink of water before going onstage. In any case, it was too late now. He felt a prickle of anxiety, further disorienting him. An eye darted to Oswald, but Crane couldn't read his expression. He could hear Cameron van Cleer snickering in the third row, joined by a few others. Remembering what had happened with Humphrey, he was able to restrain himself from leaping on Killer Moth and struggled on. He found himself rushing the piece, just wanting to end the humiliation and get it over with.

Sobered, he managed to plod his way through the song, ignoring the derisive voices in the audience. Finally, he finished the piece, raising his dirty old fedora and taking a bow. There was very little applause. Even Jervis looked stunned. Crane turned to Cobblepot, pulling his coat together and expecting the worst. If he had to go, he'd go with dignity. To his genuine surprise, Penguin shook his bony hand and raised it high, little eyes beady with triumph.

"Welcome to the C-list Supervillain Talent Show, Mr. Jonathan Crane!"

* * *

"Well, look at it this way, Jonny, old boy." Jervis sat at the far end of their table, Crane beside him and staring into space. Eddie had bought the three contestants a section of a local restaurant to eat dinner at. "At least now you know you can't sing."

"Thank you for restating the obvious." Crane turned, looking out the window. It was a cool night, and he liked the dark, but all the same it was better in the warmth of the building. "I can't believe Cobblepot let me into the show. He must want to make me look like an idiot. Knowing him, that's precisely why."

"Well, what should we do, then? I don't have an act, and you can't sing." Jervis smiled, for once as creepy as anything Crane could manage. "Say, I've got a plan. I do know how to sing, and I'll show you on one condition."

Crane slouched on the table. "Let me guess. You want me to be your partner in your act. Still not doing it."

"Aw, c'mon," Eddie Nygma goaded, although he knew better than to touch Jonathan. "You wanna show up Cobblepot, don't you? Scare him so bad he won't come near you for a month, let alone make fun of your clothes."

"Why, yes, of course. But I'll be a joke if I'm seen doing a comedy act. I'm not called the Scarecrow because of _The Wizard of Oz_. But if my own act is frightening enough, that might make up for it."

The waitress, a sour-faced woman with hair as white as her uniform, poured brown slop onto their plates. Eddie cautiously poked his, then discreetly got up and slipped it in the trash when no one was looking. It was supposed to be some kind of stew, but it was solid, stodgy, and tasted like mud. Jervis picked at his, probably planning to slip it to someone with a strong stomach or a lack of taste buds.

"Don't want it?" Jonathan, being Jonathan, had already gobbled down his serving and was attempting to negotiate for a second helping. "I'll take it off your hands." Jervis cheerfully passed it over. Very rarely, Jonathan's fondness for all things repulsive had its uses. Part of Jervis suspected that he didn't really like the stuff (who would?), but pretended to just to creep the rest of the film crew out. In which case, it worked perfectly. He spent most of his meals alone, or accompanied by the rest of the old guard.

"All right, then. Considering I do help you, how will you help me? My real act has to be absolutely terrifying to make up for… whatever you want me to do."

"Technically," Eddie commented, "you attacked Dumpler and ruined Tetch's act. You owe him this. An apology wouldn't be too much to ask for."

Crane shook his head. "I never apologize. It's Humphrey's fault for antagonizing me. If he hadn't called me that word, I wouldn't have assaulted him."

"It wouldn't kill you to be nice for once."

"Two words – super-villain." Crane grinned, grabbing his cup of tea. "You want nice, talk to someone else."

"That doesn't give you a pass to be a jerk. Somehow the rest of us manage to be functional members of society off the job. I bet," Eddie remarked with a knowing look, "deep down in that black pit you have instead of a soul, you want people to like you."

"In the immortal words of Machiavelli, I prefer to be feared. That's what I came here to do, and what I'm good at. I'm not nice and _I'm not funny_."

"Whatever." Jervis coughed. "Bring your script and music to me tomorrow, after your meeting with Hugo Strange, and I'll teach you how to sing. You've got to do the scary part yourself, but I don't think that's a problem."

Crane agreed smugly, with a quick nip from his drink. "It shouldn't be. Make sure the rest of the old gang's there. Basil, Harvey, you two. This is my return to triumph. I'll be so terrifying they'll have to let me back into comic book work. Jervis, we have a deal."

Jervis was practically jumping up and down in his chair with excitement, grabbing Jonathan's hand and shaking it hard. "As I said, I was trained in the music halls. Bring the script and the music we need, and I'll take care of the rest. In three days, you'll be warbling like a songbird. After that, I'll coach you for my comedy act."

"Right." Jonathan sounded less than enthusiastic about being part of Jervis's act. "That. Consider this a one-time thing." He cautiously returned the handshake. "This is for the studio and my job, not you."

"Sure, sure, Jonny-boy, keep telling yourself that," sneered Eddie. "We all know that this is the third time you've bailed out Tetch."

"That's because," Jonathan retorted, "he won't leave me alone. He's annoying and needy. If it was up to me, I'd fix my act, but thanks to you and Karlo, I'll be lucky if anyone's scared of me at all."

"If anyone can perform that song you picked, it's you," Jervis piped up cheerfully. "You're certainly sneaky and scary enough. You just need a little training. Besides, outside of the fencing and Professor Radium's experiment the competition won't be so fierce."

"Hey!" snapped Eddie. "I put a lot of effort into that stand-up act!"

Crane leaned back in his chair, casually sipping his tea. "Well, then, you'll have to satisfy yourself with being second best."

"Fifty dollars says I won't," Eddie challenged, and Jervis attempted to break up the argument. "Now, you two, there's no need…"

"You're on," Crane accepted, eyes narrowed as he shook Eddie's hand. "One warning, Edward: if you cheat, and I'll know if you do, I'll personally see to it that you regret it."

"Yeah." Eddie laughed nervously, all too aware of what Jonathan was capable of when he was angry. "You're on."


	7. Send My Regards to Gotham

**Send My Regards to Gotham**

_That motley drama- oh, be sure  
It shall not be forgot!  
With its Phantom chased for evermore,  
By a crowd that seize it not,  
Through a circle that ever returneth in  
To the self-same spot,  
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,  
And Horror the soul of the plot. _

- Edgar Allan Poe, _The Conqueror Worm_

* * *

The following two days were long, slow, and only faintly enjoyable for Jonathan Crane. He didn't enjoy having to learn "The People Upstairs", although the song did leave him open to use his usual deadpan attitude, which was something of a relief. He wasn't as perky about it as Jervis, but he was able to practice without feeling utterly humiliated. The piece required rapid-fire dialogue, the partners taking turns singing, occasionally breaking for spoken lines.

He didn't really understand why Humphrey Dumpler had been so unwilling to help. It was about living beside messy, annoying people. Dumpler, whose roommate fit the bill quite nicely, should have sympathized. Even if he did have the odd argument with Basil Karlo, Jonathan got on relatively well with his roommate and there weren't many squabbles about who used what and when. Still, the song was amusing, and he liked it more than he thought he would.

He spent a lot of time in Jervis's room to practice. Humphrey didn't cause any problems, quietly keeping to his side and leaving them to it. He probably, and sensibly, didn't want to be on the receiving end of Jonathan's martial arts skill again. When not there, he spent time with his mentor.

Jonathan, seeing how useful knowing how to fight was, asked Hugo Strange to teach him how to make it more skillful, graceful, controlled, but no less dangerous. Strange handed over a couple of books on martial arts, surprised when Jonathan turned them down. He wanted to practice.

When Strange agreed to have a bit of a friendly spar at his student's behest, he was genuinely surprised by how much Crane knew and how good he was at it. He used his own leanness to his advantage, darting and weaving to dodge like he had against Humpty Dumpty, but the blows were less wild and more deliberate, clumsy to fool the opponent into letting down his guard, more like dancing than fighting until he actually struck hard and fast. Unlike the fight at the audition, the punches came singly rather than in a flurry, but were more measured, with real skill behind them rather than rage. Strange, who was no physical slouch, found himself working to block the attacks, Crane too agile to easily hit back.

At last, when they'd sparred enough, he called for a break. Jonathan, more energetic than exhausted, got himself a cup of coffee at the cafeteria like he always did and grabbed a newspaper. Strange, after some thought, gave the match to him. He had the advantage of youth and knew how to turn his outer weakness into strength. Unlike Hugo, who had no particular favored fighting style, Jonathan had found something tricky, nimble, and dangerous, not unlike himself. He strongly suspected that any newcomer and would-be bully in the studio who mistook the skinny, fragile-looking man for easy prey would get a very nasty surprise.

Besides, Jonathan needed something to feel proud of.

Crane wasn't the first supervillain that he'd trained. There was Henry Ross, better known as Professor Radium. Ross, a married man, was excitable and eager to learn, but his career had fizzled out and he was very rarely seen at the studio at all. He hadn't quit – very few did, and only extras who were killed off in-script cut ties entirely to find new jobs elsewhere.

Some of his colleagues had come and gone, too. There was Carl Kruger, a feisty little man who had arrived before Hugo. Kruger had recently resurfaced to join Cobblepot's talent show, but for a long time he'd simply vanished. Rumor had it that he was raising money for extras who were having trouble finding employment after the war, and planning the same thing for his winnings. The Mad Monk, another early employee, had started up a magic act in the city since he wasn't used anymore.

Crane, on the other hand, made it clear that he had every intention of staying. He didn't wander into Los Angeles to sniff out a day job. A ghost tour put an ad in the paper he was reading for a consultant, but he didn't show any interest. No one in their right mind would hire him for anything involving small children, anyway.

"When did you learn how to fight like that? Did you have a teacher?"

"Fairly recently. I like surprising my opponents in a fight, and I'd had enough of cringing whenever types like Waylon came by. I still prefer to use my brain, but it's a last resort. My own personal style, designed to take my opponents by surprise. Its usefulness is still limited, I'm afraid. If I'm up against a proper metahuman, or someone like Wayne, it's a less than even match. I prefer intimidation - it's much neater. Only had trouble with muggers once, a few weeks ago. Didn't even have to touch them to scare the living daylights out of them. I let them go so that they could warn the other ones not to mess with me." Crane laughed softly to himself. "Oh, the looks on their faces."

Hugo nodded, still frowning. Crane grabbed his coffee, sampling it to check the temperature. Hugo suspected that he needed caffeine to calm his nerves. For someone who delighted in provoking fear in others, the thin man was so often badly stressed. He didn't even bother to savor his coffee when he drank it, just gulping it down without a second thought. Apparently the mug was still too hot, since Crane winced slightly and put it aside.

"Mind if I drink while we talk?"

"Not at all," Hugo replied, Crane visibly relieved. "You have got a good memory, Master Crane. Back when you first joined us, Frank Kendrick said that you learned your lines in under a day."

"Ah, well, it's a mixed blessing. I've got things that I wish I could forget." Jonathan drank some of his coffee. Slurped his coffee, to put it more accurately. Hugo doubted he'd even tasted it.

"You have come a long way since I first began teaching you. If you carry on the way you are, I can see you becoming a studio regular, like Joker and Cobblepot. You do not belong with the likes of Jervis Tetch and Cameron van Cleer. You have the makings of a B-lister at least."

Jonathan couldn't stop himself from grinning. Him, working at the same level as Penguin? Even in his wildest fantasies, he'd never imagined himself being that skilled. But Strange was a studio veteran, so what he said had to be true.

"However, as I told you before, you need a gimmick to make yourself noticed. So here it is." Strange rummaged in a coat pocket, drawing out a bag filled with a fine, venomous green powder. "Fear dust. An old invention of mine which I used on one of my old jobs. I have no more use for it, and so it is my reward to you."

"I can't accept," Jonathan replied, almost choking on his coffee when it went down the wrong pipe. "I mean, it's your gimmick. Not mine. I may be desperate, but I don't plagiarize."

"I give you permission, Master Crane. I think you'll be able to make better use of fear dust than I did." Strange passed Jonathan the bag, which the younger actor meekly accepted. He opened it, squinting. It didn't look very impressive, but the name "fear dust" sounded promising.

"So, ah, what exactly am I supposed to do with it? What does it do?" Crane shook the bag, listening to the stuff rustle. He shoved it in a pocket in his coat, making a note to experiment with it later. His mentor had given it to him for a reason, even if he wouldn't bother to explain how fear dust actually worked and how Jonathan was supposed to use it to help his act.

"Ah, if I told you that would make it too easy."

Typical answer. It looked like Jonathan would spend the next few weeks tinkering with Strange's bag of fear dust. Since he was a more than capable chemist, this wouldn't be too difficult. He'd need to run some preliminary tests to make sure that whatever was in the bag wasn't too toxic or combustible to be usable on set. Rats could be used until he knew how to activate the dust and which doses were safe enough to use on people. That is, if he could find a pet shop willing to hand little animals over to him.

He got up, gave a quick goodbye to Strange, and darted to his room with the bag of fear dust, planting it on his desk. Of course, most of the real work would be done with the windows open when Karlo was out. Basil probably wouldn't like the idea of his roommate working with potentially dangerous chemicals. Then again, Strange used the stuff himself, so it couldn't have been too poisonous to be tested.

Perhaps the key was changing the fear dust's chemical state. As a solid, it was more or less useless. If it was changed into a liquid, for instance, or a gas, it might be much more useful…

* * *

The audience for the talent show was a familiar batch, mostly consisting of C-listers and B-listers. Jonathan, wearing his ratty outfit, found a seat between Basil Karlo and Jervis, who was twitching in his seat. According to Basil, he'd had to be reminded by the person in back to take off his hat so that other people could actually see the acts as they came on.

Harvey Dent was there in the next row, next to his current girlfriend Gilda Gold. They'd been going stable for the past year, so many people, Jonathan included, suspected that they'd be taking their oaths soon. It had gotten very intense recently, after the Cross-Studio Festival - they'd kissed in front of Harvey's friends more than once. Harvey took his relationship with Gilda very seriously, taking Jonathan aside when they first began going out and making him promise not to bother her in any way. Jonathan agreed, more out of respect for Harvey than care for Gilda. Because of her, Dent hadn't spent as much time around his old friends as he used to. Eddie had been the most nervous about it. Jonathan, as usual, could care less. If Harvey wanted to get married, that was no concern for him, as long as Basil didn't try and get him to dress up fancy for the party if Gilda and Dent did become a couple.

Paul Dekker, wearing his stupid Crazy Quilt costume, was beside Cameron van Cleer. For once, Killer Moth had the good taste to be put off by those clothes. White gloves, an electronic light-generating helmet, and the absolute worst costume among everyone on the C-list. Even Jonathan, who had literally come up with his Scarecrow costume on the spot, had put more thought into it than Dekker. It was, fitting his art motif, a literal patchwork of reds, greens, yellows, and blues. It was unique, and not in a good way. As bad as Cameron's moth costume was, it was fairly easy on the eyes. Dekker was showing off his self-proclaimed masterpiece, _Forest Scene With River,_ to anyone who would listen. Jonathan still thought it was a very bad painting. Dekker needed to be locked into an art museum and shown what real art was.

Jonathan heard someone behind him shouting loud enough to raise the dead. Joe Coyne, the infamous Penny Plunderer, was arguing with the doorman. He was probably trying to pay the entrance fee in pennies again. Coyne was a one-timer, but had never left the studio, convinced that his talents would be called on again soon enough. Like Dekker, he thought he was a genius. Everyone else thought he was delusional. His villain alias smacked of extra, he hadn't bothered with a flashy costume, and his weird penny fixation made his weekly paycheck problematic – he insisted on being paid exclusively in one-cent coins. At last the guard gave up, let Coyne through, and the guy found a seat next to Garfield Lynns, who had brought a bag of popcorn and cola. At least he wasn't wearing his Firefly costume this time.

"Morning, Jonathan." One cold blue eye swiveled to see Gilda, wearing a green dress for the occasion. "Harvey and I are sitting in the next row over, if you want to join us. Hope your act goes well."

"So do I," Jonathan grumbled. He'd practiced, yes, and knew the lyrics to both his song and Tetch's by heart. He thought he'd finally got the pacing for "The People Upstairs" right. It wasn't a hard song, sure, but it required rapid-fire knowledge of the verses and when to use spoken dialogue. Luckily, "Mack the Knife" had been much more suited to his personal style. His only worry was whether the judges' view of his own act would be tainted by Jervis's.

"We've got big news," Gilda continued as Jonathan lounged in his chair. Eddie, seated beside Jervis, perked up to listen in. "You know that Harvey and I have been dating, right?"

"You two have been at it for four years. I'd have to be brain-dead not to have figured it out by now." Jonathan leaned back, frowning. "Just don't start kissing in front of me again. That's disgusting."

"Oh, Jonathan, it's better than that." Gilda smiled, Jonathan immediately feeling uncomfortable. "We're getting married in a month. There'll be a party to celebrate, of course, and you're invited."

"Well, that's just fine and –" Jonathan sat up as he realized what Gilda had said. "Wait. What? Invited? _Me_?"

Gilda smiled gently, as if she saw how stunned Crane looked. "Don't be silly. You're an old friend and coworker of Harvey, so you have to come. He insisted."

Jonathan shook his head in disbelief. "No one's ever invited me to anything before, least of all a party."

"And I wonder why."

"Shut it, Edward," Jonathan snapped. "Well, ah, I'll need some time to think about your offer. I don't know very much about parties, you see. My best wishes to you and Harvey. Tell him Jonathan Crane sends his regards." He smiled despite himself. "Y'know, Gilda, my day just keeps getting better and better. I finally got my hands on something that could save my career, and I'm being invited to a party for the first time in my life."

"Just don't pull any of your usual tricks at the wedding," Coyne remarked from behind. "No cockroaches, no spiders, and no snakes."

"Got it," Jonathan replied, bored. He liked playing pranks, but he knew better than to pick on someone who'd just been kind to him. He played a villain, yes, but even he wasn't that mean-spirited. "A month's time. Don't expect me to dress for the occasion." He laughed, a joyless, throaty sound. "Well, I'll see you during the show, Miss Gilda. Or would you prefer Mrs. Dent?"

"Not until the oaths, Mr. Crane," Gilda chided, disappearing into the crowd to find her fiance. Harvey was chatting with Henry Ross, Professor Radium, who was giving them a small sample of his act by producing some glowing chemical. Jonathan couldn't get a look at it thanks to the growing audience. C-listers one and all, mostly villains, but a few extras there, too. He saw Bruce's old flame Julie Madison, talking to a friend of hers, Linda Page. Linda was very edgy around Jonathan Crane, even though they'd worked on Jonathan's second comic together in 1943. Jonathan got up, gesturing for Jervis and Eddie to keep quiet, and crept up behind Linda as she talked, disappearing into the shadows. As Linda talked, Jonathan silently slunk beside her and tapped her on the back. Linda jumped and spun round, seeing Crane standing there with a self-satisfied smile.

"Goodness! Crane, do you have to do that?"

"Oh, come now, Linda. You know it's only me." Jonathan's smile widened into a toothy grin. "Why, it's been a long time since I've seen either of you. Such a pity."

Julie didn't reply but stared at him, unfortunately more confused than scared. "All right, Linda, who is he? Friend of yours?"

"Oh, yes!" Linda stepped aside, letting Crane approach. "You were already gone when Jonathan showed up. Allow me to introduce you. Julie Madison, Jonathan Crane. Jonathan, Julie. Jonathan works here, like I used to. We worked on a comic together way back in 1943, after you left the studio. He's all right, I suppose, but he's rather strange. His tastes are a little, ah, different."

Jonathan snickered. Different, eh? "Ah, Linda. You know how I like checking in on all of my old workmates."

"I see that. Once a creep, always a creep." Linda shuddered, making a point of looking away from Jonathan. "Now then, Julie, as we were. Lois is still steady with Kent, I take it…"

Annoyed, Jonathan was about to remind Linda of how rude it was to act like someone didn't exist, but saw Jervis in the audience urging him back to his seat with hand gestures.

"Looks like you got lucky this time, Linda. I've got obligations. Tell Herold and Dodge I said hello." Jonathan gave a sharp nod and went to talk to Jervis, his lean body letting him slip between the rows without any trouble. "What is it, Tetch? This had better be important."

"Oh, it is. The acts are starting up. Look – there's Oswald up on the stage to introduce the first act." Jervis pointed, and Jonathan saw the short, fat form of Oswald Cobblepot fiddling with a microphone, an umbrella at his side. Jonathan narrowed his eyes. If Penguin wanted a show, he'd get one.

"Welcome, everyone," Oswald announced, "to our first annual C-List Supervillain Talent Show." Most of the audience applauded while Jonathan winced. "Do we have a show tonight! The people here, even if they aren't given as much to do as, say, our more famous stars, have plenty of skills to offer our studio. First up is Henry Ross, better known as Professor Radium, demonstrating 'The Magic of Science'." Ross, a slight figure with glasses and a goatee, came to the stage with his materials on a cart.

Crane liked Ross, something that couldn't be said for many people. Both of them were members of the Mad Scientists' Union, headed by Lex Luthor. Despite his envy of and disgust for Luthor, membership had its benefits, and Jonathan had met a variety of celebrated figures there - Doctor Thorne of the Crime Clinic and Gerard Shugel, the legendary Ultra-Humanite. Shugel was the first costumed supervillain, who had opened doors for Jonathan and people like him. Karl Hellfern, an old friend of Crane's better known as Dr. Death, had once been the leader of the Mad Scientists' Union for five years before his defeat by Luthor. Luthor had proceeded to hold the position for the next nine years. Jonathan wasn't the only one who smelled a rat.

Still, it was good to stay in touch with old workmates like Helfern and Ross. Ross in particular, as Professor Radium could match Crane in his skill with chemicals. Maybe contacting Ross after the show would be a good idea, as he might know what to do with Hugo Strange's fear dust. It would save money and he doubted, with his reputation, that anyone would let him handle small animals.

Ross's experiment, as it turned out, involved producing a mess of fizzy glop by dropping some sort of pill in a drink container full of brown liquid. Crane wasn't sure what to expect. Nothing exploded, thankfully. Nevertheless, it did spray goop across the stage and all over the audience. Jonathan tasted a sample that had splattered on his shirt. It didn't taste half bad. In fact, it tasted a lot like Coca-Cola.

"That's not magic," he whispered to Jervis. "It's a simple chemical reaction."

"Aw, Jonny, you're no fun."

Jervis hunched up as Ross announced his next act, calling for the stage crew to dim the lights as he produced a green rock. Under the darkness, the rock began to glow brightly, Ross holding it up so that everyone could see. Then he rubbed the glowing rock on his hand, the green spreading to him. That, many of the older actors knew, was how he'd done his 'Professor Radium' effects – glowing green paint. It was remarkably useful stuff. After leaving the studio, he'd begun selling it to others as a special effect. The room broke out in applause, even from Crane, who had a weakness for strange chemicals. Ross took a bow, wiped off the green paint, and walked offstage, letting the cleaners fix the mess from his cola experiment.

"And next up – Paul Dekker, who will show us a painting that he produced with his eyes closed. Put your hands together for _Forest Scene With River_!"

Dekker swaggered onto the stage, shamelessly wearing his Crazy Quilt costume and flashing the audience with his light helmet. Jonathan squinted, even though he already knew how terrible the painting was. If there was an award for bad art, Dekker would win hands down, no contest. There it was in all its incomprehensible, blobby, pastel glory. No one else knew quite what to make of it.

"It's… different," Jervis told Jonathan. "I'll give Paul points for that. What's it supposed to be?"

"A forest scene with a river. At least that's what he says it is." Crane sighed. "If you ask me, on the other hand, it's a toss-up. No fashion sense and no art sense, either."

"Yeah, like you, Mr. It's-Still-The-Forties," cracked Eddie. "Our bet's still on, remember? One of us wins, the winner gets fifty dollars off the loser."

Jonathan coughed. "Yes, I know. If you cheat, don't forget, I'll give my new fear dust a practice run on you."

"Fear dust?" Eddie sat up. "I knew you and Hugo Strange were up to something. What is it?"

"I don't know. I'll be running tests on it in the next few weeks. I think it's the stuff I need to save my act, though." Jonathan pointed to the stage. "Looks like Dekker's act is done." This time, cheering was more sparse, and a lot of it sounded forced. Paul Dekker, clearly restraining himself from calling the audience uncultured philistines, stamped off in a huff with his painting under his arm. Cobblepot strutted back to the stage. "And next up - Carl Kruger, making balloon animals."

"How the mighty have fallen," Eddie whispered in Jervis's ear. "From piloting zeppelins to, well, this."

Kruger went onstage, and to be honest the act wasn't quite as bad as Jonathan had thought it would be. It was silly, yes, but Kruger was admittedly good at it, making poodles, octopi, and swords out of his balloons and tossing them into the crowd. Jervis was fascinated, probably attracted by all of the pretty colors. He grabbed a yellow balloon rabbit, stashing it beside him. Jonathan didn't bother, slipping a balloon that landed close by under his chair and surreptitiously popping it. The last thing he needed was to be seen with children's toys. Poor Carl Kruger, former fifth columnist and current circus clown. It was almost enough to make one cry. The key word being 'almost'.

The rest of the show was fairly straightforward. Some of the acts went well, like Eddie's standup routine. The crowd thought his double-entendres and jabs were hilarious, including the ones he made at himself. Jonathan didn't think it was anything too special, but that was probably because he had fifty dollars on Nygma losing. Nevertheless, he couldn't deny that the act was good and that Eddie had clearly practiced. Coyne and Jervis certainly seemed to think so. Jervis in particular seemed to think a lot of things were funny. Eddie took a bow to a cheering crowd and strutted offstage with a wink that was clearly meant for Crane.

"Show-off," Jonathan muttered under his breath.

After Garfield Lynns came on in his Firefly costume and did a few stunts involving a flamethrower, the bulk of the good acts were over and done. Crane and Tetch were coming on next, a moment Jervis anticipated and Jonathan dreaded. Well, there was no going back now. Jervis slipped him a cup of water, which he gratefully drained.

"And for our next act, that music hall classic "The People Upstairs", as performed by our very own Jervis Tetch and Jonathan Crane!"

Jervis practically dragged Jonathan onstage. "Now, remember your lines," he reminded before standing up and clearing his throat and beginning. Jonathan switched off with him when necessary. It wasn't easy, but he swallowed his pride and joined Jervis, sarcasm practically oozing from his lines. The audience seemed to like it, bolstering his confidence. As the two joined for the final verse and took a bow, Jonathan took up his place beside Cobblepot, hearing something beside him. Tetch again.

"All right," Jervis whispered in his ear. "It's your turn now. Don't be nervous. You're called the Scarecrow for a reason. Go out there and scare the spit out of 'em!" Jonathan nodded absently, listening to Cobblepot introduce him as Jervis scampered offstage.

"And now, for our third-to-last act, singing a selection from _The Threepenny Opera _- the Master of Fear, the Pharaoh of Phobias, the sinister Scarecrow - Jonathan Crane!"

Jonathan took a second bow, positioning himself beside Cobblepot, and began to sing, his voice soft, slow, and menacing. The rasp was gone. He exploited the shadows of the nightclub, vanishing, the only hint the first eerie verse of "Mack the Knife". Then he lunged out at the end of the second verse and strolled back and forth across the platform, remarkably casual, describing Mack's acts of terror and violence in a soft, sinister hiss that became louder with each verse. At one point he sprang down from the stage and vanished into the audience, startling Harvey and Gilda in the second row. He noted with a thrill that Basil Karlo looked impressed. He nimbly jumped back to his place onstage, closing off the song and creeping away, hunched, shadow deliberately thrown against the stage.

He entered the room where the other contestants were backstage, immediately greeted by Eddie, who sprang up grinning from a wooden chair. "Well, Jonny-boy, you did a good job of that. Not as good as me, of course. And I did not cheat. Fifty dollars, please."

Jonathan found his own chair, joined by Jervis, who stood beside him and checked a small gold watch. "Not until Penguin announces the winner. And Ross, good work." Henry Ross, putting away his materials, looked up and smiled.

"Why, thank you, Crane. Always glad to see someone who appreciates my work." He went back to packaging the glowing paint. "My chemicals are very much in demand from the other studios. How do you think kryptonite is made, eh? Ordinary rock with a coating of Professor Radium's special paint. I know you've done some effects work in the past, too, so I'm pleased to have your approval."

Jonathan agreed with a quick thumbs-up. "Good job, old-timer. Always glad to hear from you. See you next week at the union meeting."

Carl Kruger, in the corner, coughed on dust as he deflated his remaining balloons. Garfield Lynns dozed in a chair. Dekker was still admiring that atrocious painting, muttering about how he didn't need a studio job to get rich. He had a stack of other paintings beside him - one looked like how a three-year-old would draw a city street, a mess of grays and browns, while another was a bad impression of a desert with unfinished green lines instead of cacti. Crane had to grudgingly admire that kind of determination, however deluded. He managed to grab a bit of a nap, listening to the other contestants squabble. He barely noticed the red-robed Mad Monk slink in, followed by Mortimer Drake, who was swinging his rapier and whistling.

A few moments later, someone roughly jabbed him in the side and he got up furious, ready to tear into whoever had woken him. Unfortunately, it was only Jervis, still holding that gold pocketwatch, and he had naturally done it for a good reason.

"Ah. Glad you're up, I was worrying for a little bit there. You sleep like a log, if you would pardon the cliché. Ozzie's about to announce the winner."

"Ozzie? You mean Cobblepot?" Jonathan got to his feet, noticing that everyone else was packed close around. "About time."

"Hope you've got the cash, Jonny-boy," Eddie taunted, and Crane quickly retorted, "Same to you, Nygma." They didn't leave, but crowded round the side to listen in. Crane found himself blocked by Drake and Kruger. Luckily, thanks to his height, that wasn't too much of an issue. He hadn't missed much.

Cobblepot was fiddling with the microphone again before making his final announcement. "Our judges have made a decision concerning who of our stable has the best talent out of all our C-list supervillains. It was a difficult choice - there were so many fantastic acts." Crane's body tensed, and close by Eddie perked up, waiting for the final call. "The winner of the First Annual C-List Supervillain Talent Show is - drum roll, please - Mr. Paul Dekker!"

"Yes! Yes! I told you two I'd do it!" Dekker rushed onstage to grab his trophy as Crane and Nygma gaped, as stunned as the audience was. "See ya, suckers! Eat your words, Jon!"

"Well, now what do we do?" Eddie asked, not expecting an answer. They hadn't really prepared for this. "Tell you what. How about we each keep our money and consider this a tie?"

Crane nodded stiffly, blue eyes narrowed to slits as Basil Karlo came in, looking to calm the two down. "You know what, Nygma? Words cannot describe my hatred for that man."

"Same here. At least we can agree on something. I can't believe he beat us. Cobblepot has no taste at all. I'd have rather you won than Dekker. 'Least we get to keep our cash."

Jervis popped up beside them, seeing how miserable they looked. "I can tell you two need something to raise your spirits a little. Now, earlier today I was sniffing around the local cinema, and I found a movie that you two might like. Bought five tickets - I invited Bas, Harvey, and Gilda too." Basil's watery eyes glistened a little. He did like going to the movies. It brought back memories of the old days.

"God forbid Harvey go anywhere without Glinda," Eddie muttered. "Glad he hasn't forgotten about us yet."

"It's Gilda. Get her name right," Basil hissed, and Eddie shrugged.

Jonathan couldn't have cared less about Gilda. "What movie is it, so I know if I want to watch it?"

"It just came out last week. _Creature from the Black Lagoon_. It's a horror movie. I think you'll like it, Jonny." Jervis handed Jonathan a ticket. "The movie's showing later this evening. Meet me down at the Newsreel Theater at nine o' clock and we'll watch it together."

"It's been a long time since I was in movies," sighed Basil, suddenly seeming very old, his white hair more prominent than ever. "I remember when you could see me in monster pictures. _The Terror, _starring Basil Karlo as Clayface and Julie Madison. 1926. I remember it to this day. She was a very pretty girl back then. Of course, Clayface suited comics just as well when the pictures had no more use for him."

Crane snapped his fingers. "Ah. _The Terror_. A true classic of the genre. Right up there with _Nosferatu_ and _The Phantom of the Opera_, if you ask me. Then again, I'm hardly an unbiased critic." He fixed his coat, slipping the ticket into a side pocket of his trousers. "I'll see you all at the theater, then. Nine o'clock."


	8. Interesting Times

**Interesting Times**

_"I felt sad at this, for it showed I was not such a good Scarecrow after all; but the old crow comforted me, saying, `If you only had brains in your head you would be as good a man as any of them, and a better man than some of them. Brains are the only things worth having in this world, no matter whether one is a crow or a man.'_

- L. Frank Baum, _The Wonderful Wizard of Oz_

* * *

The movie, to Jonathan's surprise, wasn't half bad. It was actually quite enjoyable. Jervis had purchased a seat in the second row, which was where Harvey and Gilda were. Eddie was pouting beside Basil Karlo, who was the most interested out of the entire group. He was an old-time movie star, of course, and was keen to see how film was developing. The title Creature from the Black Lagoon was a strange thing, all right, a scaly, gilled man-fish that had a startling amount of charisma for a man in a suit. As someone more in line with the Creature's methods than Basil's, Jonathan thought that the effects were well done and at several points the movie was genuinely suspenseful. It didn't scare him, of course. He wasn't easily rattled, especially by a movie. It was well done and interesting to watch. That was all. His popcorn remained uneaten, half of it spilled on the theater floor by Eddie's arm. Not that anyone noticed.

Jonathan's final verdict, as the movie ended and the mortally injured fish-man sank into the Black Lagoon, was that it was a good horror movie but no _Nosferatu_. Basil didn't say a word, getting up and leading the band out as some kindly soul cleaned the spilled popcorn. He seemed more pensive than usual, stopping his friends outside the theater as the other customers returned to their lives. Eddie stood beside Jervis and Jonathan, scowling when he saw that Harvey and Gilda were holding hands. The old guard, despite their best efforts, was splitting up. Everyone suspected it, even Jonathan, who with his knowledge of fear understood what had Eddie so upset. Eddie's fear was that Harvey's infatuation with Gilda took precedence over his relationship with his old friends. In a few words, being forgotten about. It wasn't as easily exploited as, say, arachnophobia, but it was still there.

Judging from Basil's somber expression, things were about to get even worse. Basil coughed into his coat's sleeve before speaking, his voice soft but sad. Jonathan, not usually one to connect with others' emotions, approached curiously. He considered Karlo a friend, with some thought. Sure, Karlo had made cracks about him when he first arrived, but he'd made up for it, being an important ally and supporter as well as a film actor of some repute. He was the first person who Jonathan, with his brooding and grudge-holding, plotting intricate humiliations for anyone who dared wrong him, had found the ability to forgive. Something was wrong, but it wasn't fear. Basil was sad, not afraid.

"Karlo, what is it? What do you want to say? If something is wrong..."

Basil sighed, a faint hiss in the air. Eddie looked up from Harvey and Gilda, who both realized what was going on. It was very rare for Crane to show any emotions, much less concern for other people. Then again, Basil Karlo was one of his oldest friends, a fellow bringer of fear and someone to discuss horror movies with, even one of the few people he could interact with on an intellectual level. One could hardly discuss the psychology of fear with Killer Moth or the Tweeds.

The Scarecrow and The Man with the Clay Face. One a younger newcomer to the comic industry, the other an aging veteran.

"First off, Jonathan, Jervis, all of you, I ask that you not be upset with what I am about to say. I am in my seventies now and I think that it's time for me to retire from comic work." For a little while, no one answered, only stared. Eddie was confused. Jervis looked worried, and the same for Harvey and Gilda. Jonathan, who had known him the longest, was shocked out of speaking. The movie was forgotten almost instantly.

"Why?" asked Gilda, the first to find her voice. "You've worked here..."

"For years," Karlo finished. "I'm just a dead weight on the studio. I haven't been hired for a job in years, and I'm not getting any younger."

"Neither have I," retorted Jonathan, eyes wide. "Look, Basil. You can't go! You're my roommate. Without you, I'll be alone again."

"What are we, chopped liver?"

"Shut up, Eddie," Harvey snapped. "Let Jonathan work out his own issues."

Basil lay a hand on the younger man's shoulder. "We've had our time, Jon. Now we have to move on. You've got the stuff to be as scary as any of those folks you look up to. Take it from old Clayface himself. Just think about how we first met. I thought you were a hobo." Jonathan laughed, but it sounded forced and bitter. "I know times are hard right now, but they can't stay this way. They'll take you back as soon as they see what you're capable of."

"They'd better. When are you going, then? And why in the name of everything holy did you choose now to tell us?" Jonathan didn't want to cry. No self-respecting Master of Fear would be caught crying. It was a sign of weakness. However, he couldn't seem to help it. He felt something wet on his cheek that was probably a tear. He only realized now, as Basil Karlo was about to leave the studio and his life, how much he'd cared, despite himself, about the old man for all his griping. All this emotion was confusing, and trying to cover it up made him feel even sicker.

Basil didn't let go. "Tomorrow night. I'm catching a train to the Midwest. I need some time out in the country, and I wanted us to enjoy one last time together before we parted ways. Don't be upset, Jon. I doubt this'll be the last time I see you. I bet the secretary might arrange for you to have a new roommate." Jonathan nodded, although the pessimist that nested in him was sure that Basil was lying to help him feel better. He felt confused, ill, and uncertain, three feelings he loathed.

"C'mon," Jervis remarked, always knowing when Jonathan wasn't well. "Things'll get better. They've got to eventually, don't they?"

Jonathan didn't know what to think, his insides churning. He wanted to crawl into his room - truly his now that Basil would be clearing out - and stay alone for a good long time. He tried to say something, anything, but the words caught in his throat.

When Basil hugged him, he couldn't find the energy to resist.

* * *

The next day, Basil cleared out his things and was gone by the afternoon. Jonathan Crane didn't come out, even to eat, instead taking full advantage of his isolation. With Basil gone, he had the room to himself, for better or worse. He didn't have access to any small animals to try the fear dust on, so most of his experiments were centered around changing the chemical state of the stuff. As a solid, it had little effect on anything. When he tried sniffing it, the worst he got was some mild irritation around the nostrils. When vaporized into a gas, which only took a little heating, its effects were almost overwhelming. The stuff's power was psychological - no permanent ill effects, but even Crane found himself feeling a rush of adrenaline, prey instincts kicking in. He hunched on his bed, hidden in the sheets, until the effects of the fear gas wore off.

A good start. The effects had to be weakened a little to be usable on-set, but Hugo Strange had certainly known what he needed. A simulated phobia. It was potentially extremely useful as a prop. He just needed to avoid contact with the stuff unless his scripts called for it. It disoriented his intellect, his main strength. Once the fear gas formula was perfected, he would present it before his producer and explain what it was for. He felt uncomfortable using Hugo's generic formula, so he began tinkering with it, triggering specific phobias instead of simple fear - spiders, snakes, heights. This was invaluable. While he knew when people were afraid by instinct, he couldn't identify a person's worst fear without observation or a grueling trial-and-error process.

This new method would quicken things considerably.

As he hid himself away, his friends began to worry. Harvey and Gilda wondered if he was sick or upset because Basil was gone. Even Eddie wasn't as quick with a joke as he'd used to be. However unpleasant Jonathan Crane could be, things were certainly quiet without him. The rest of the group didn't want the old guard to split up - they'd been together for years, with the exception of Jervis. But Crane didn't come out if he could help it, only emerging when hunger drove him to it.

They'd already lost Basil. They weren't about to lose Jonathan, too. So one day, they made arrangements to take action.

Some time after Basil left, Jervis Tetch, carrying a piece of paper under one arm, came to the door of Room Three. Crane, in typical style, had put up a black poster with a skull on it and the words KEEP OUT in bold white lettering. He could be so melodramatic. Ignoring it, Jervis rapped on the door three times, hearing a muffled curse, a thump, and the sound of footsteps.

It swung open suddenly, revealing a nightmarish figure wearing a tight black gas mask, its voice a rasping, sickly hiss. It shambled forward, breathing heavily, slamming the door shut behind it before its attentions turned to Jervis. The actor stumbled against the wall, raising a fist to warn the figure off. The piece of paper fell. He heard a wheezing laugh behind the mask, tipping him off as to who exactly the creature was. Only one person would revel in terrifying him like this.

"Jonathan? That is you, right?"

The man behind the gas mask took it off, taking several deep breaths. It was hot and exhausting inside it and he needed some fresh air in his lungs. "Took you long enough," Jonathan Crane replied dryly, hands on his sides. "What do you want, Tetch? You're interrupting valuable research. The work I'm doing right now could save my job. Didn't you see the note I left on the door?"

"Valuable research, eh? That explains the gas mask. What kind of stuff are you messing with in there?"

"Artificial phobias," Jonathan replied proudly. "I'm brewing up a batch of trypanophobia right now. In the correct quantities, my gas doesn't do any permanent damage, but I wouldn't advise breathing in too much." Jervis stepped a few feet back from the door. It would be better to avoid taking risks. Crane usually didn't joke around about these things and had probably been wearing a gas mask for a very sensible reason.

"Artificial phobias," Jervis repeated. Only Jonathan Crane would tamper with something like that.

"Yes. Hugo Strange's fear dust just needed a few refinements. Now I have my gimmick." Jonathan leaned back casually against the wall, mask still dangling from one hand. "So, then, Tetch, what brings you here? Why are you bothering me? I was starting to suspect that you've got more brains than you let on, but your insistence in pestering me leads me to question that."

"I just, ah, have a few things to tell you," Jervis began nervously, and Jonathan yawned.

"Carry on."

"First off, I was worried that you were lonely, holed up in your room like that. Humphrey demanded a single, so I asked that they pair me up with you instead now that Bas is gone." Jonathan froze as the realization sank in. "I filled out the proper forms, Humphrey's getting Room Six, and, well, I'm your new roomie! I just need your signature here for permission-"

"No."

"Aw, c'mon! It can't be fun locking yourself up in your room like that. Room Three isn't your personal chemistry lab. If you don't accept me, I won't have anywhere else to go. Please?"

"Fine! If it gets you off my back. Of course they have to assign me a roommate when I'm getting something productive done. And of course it _has_ to be you. Give me that paper." Jonathan grabbed the sheet from Jervis, who handed him an ink pen. He signed, rushing it somewhat, and passed it back. "If you're going to live with me, we'll have to set a few ground rules first. The most important one: _never_ touch my things. Books, magazines, don't touch any of them. I'll know if you do. Keep your mess to your side and I'll keep my mess on mine."

Jervis nodded, squeaking "Yes, Jonathan."

"Secondly, if you're going to be living with me, I may as well use you for something. How would you like to make a bit of spare money, Tetch? My fear gas is close to perfected. All I need is a way to actually use it. My designs call for a device rigged to the wrist, something like an aerosol can, that's activated by touch and releases a spray of my mixture into the target's face. I'm better with chemicals than engineering, I'm afraid."

"Ah. It's good you went to me, then." Jervis gave a nervous laugh. "I'm ah, something of an inventor off the job, you see. It's a hobby I have, building little devices. Like you, I have ways of defending myself. After that run-in with Lynns, I decided to build something to help me in case it ever happens again. I'll, ah, be happy to do a spare job for you if it means I can stay. Just allow me a bit of a grace period to move my things in. Mercy's sake, y'know."

"Fine," Jonathan snapped. "You can have a free day to set yourself up. Be warned, though, if anything disappears I'll hold you responsible, and you know what I'm capable of." He gave another wicked smile. "Still think I'm an improvement over old Mr. Dumpler, eh?"

"Well, yes. He was even worse. Always complained about my reading children's books and the mess I made of my half of the room. He hated messes, did Humphrey. Don't think I'll miss him. You're scary in a whole different way. Besides, I can handle you." Jervis brought back a box from his room, struggling to carry it. Jonathan could only imagine how many books, clothes, music sheets, and assorted pieces of memorabilia were inside. "Open the door, please. Surely that horrible stuff you were playing with has dissipated by now."

"Probably," Crane remarked. "When I run out, I'll have to ask Strange how to make some on my own. The amount he gave me lasted just long enough for me to find out what it does and run some experimental work myself."

"You've been testing that whatever-it-is on _yourself_? And they call me crazy."

"Well, yes." Crane shifted his glasses a little. "That is, unless you're volunteering as a test subject."

Tetch shook his head vehemently. "Of course not, Mr. Crane. I'm not as, er, experienced with that kind of thing as you are. Leave you to it."

"Suit yourself." Jonathan opened the door, sniffing the air. Nothing happened. The gas was gone. Not surprising, since he'd only been working with a fairly small amount for safety's sake. Jervis was clearly fine, too, seeing as he simply dragged the case in and began making himself at home. Jonathan, after watching for a while, helped him set up his bookcase and arrange his Lewis Carroll collection. He browsed a copy of _The Hunting of the Snark_ absently. He knew very little of Mr. Carroll except that his real name was Charles Dodgson, he was a professor in Oxford, and he was a logician. It was very clever as children's books went. _Jabberwocky_ in particular was a very interesting poem, and Jonathan had quite the time imagining what the title monster looked like.

Not describing it was a very clever tactic. Sometimes the best way to scare was to hide. That was something he knew, one of his favorite tricks, so much so that it was a common saying in the studio that the surest way to know that Jonathan Crane was lurking in a darkened room was if you didn't see him.

After fixing the books, Jervis went to get Waylon to help him move a bed in, and Jonathan decided to make himself scarce. Along with Firefly and Humpty Dumpty, Killer Croc was one of the people he preferred to avoid crossing paths with. After disposing of soiled materials and storing the next batch of fear dust, he crept out of the room and strode down the hallway. Getting a cup of coffee at the cafeteria wouldn't be a bad idea. Heaven only knew how much stress he'd have in the next few weeks with Basil gone and Jervis Tetch as his new roommate. He hated change.

Harvey getting married, Basil off somewhere in the Midwest, Jervis now a constant nuisance to him - it would never end. Things just wouldn't stay consistent, could they? He was so lost in thought that one of the Tweeds, running down the hallway on those short legs, almost slammed right into him.

"Ah! Sorry, Jonathan. Didn't see you." The obese supervillain tipped his hat in an apology.

Jonathan leaned back, more amused than upset. "Oh. Hello, Deever."

"It's Dumfree, Crane, learn the difference." Dumfree tried his best to look upset, but the fact that his hands couldn't touch his sides made him look stupid instead. "Look, pal, I'd love to stay and chat, but there's a meeting down in the main room. Everybody's down there, even Wayne and Joker. Something serious must be going on. Cousin Deever sent me to find you. He says it's important. Run along, I'll find Tetch."

The Tweed cousin waddled away, and Jonathan decided to find the meeting and learn what was going on. Dumfree had seemed nervous, and it hadn't been because of him. Without looking back to check on Jervis, he quickened his pace and found his way to the chief filming room. What he saw amazed even his jaded eyes.

* * *

Dumfree Tweed had been telling the truth. Everyone from Cameron van Cleer to Bruce Wayne himself was there. For some reason Cameron was wearing his inane Killer Moth costume. Waylon Jones stood beside him, clawed hands bunched into tense fists. Crane neatly sidestepped him, wriggling between Mortimer Drake and Harvey Dent. Gilda, as always, stood beside her husband-to-be. They were holding hands in public. Disgusting.

"Okay, Dent, what in God's name is going on? Why are there so many people? Why did Dumfree come to my room and bother me?"

Gilda took control of the conversation. "There's a meeting, Jonathan. It's terribly serious - they're talking about closing the studio down. There might be a chance of saving it if we make a few concessions."

"Wait? _What_?" Crane didn't like the sound of what he thought he'd heard. "What was that about closing the studio down? Over my dead body, that's when they'll close it down. I didn't haul myself all the way from Arlen to be tossed out on my-"

"Damn it, Crane," snarled Killer Croc, "does everything always have to be about you? Everyone's job's in trouble because of this, not just yours, so shut your trap!"

Crane made a point of ignoring Waylon, discreetly stepping a little closer to Harvey and Gilda. "So, what was that about concessions? Are they going to close us down right away, or do we have a chance? Why are they doing it now of all times? I just figured out how to save my job, and they shut the studio? Just my luck. Sometimes, in my weaker moments, I think that there is a higher power, and that his idea of fun is torturing me."

Harvey sighed, brushing aside his dark hair. "We're not closed yet. All we have to do is make a few concessions. There was a Congressional hearing - some people got the idea into their heads that the comics we make corrupt children. A bunch of titles were shut down because of it, especially the horror comics - _Vault of Horror_, _Haunt of Fear_, _Tales from the Crypt_... A few of our people tried to fight back with a court case, and the censorship is a compromise. There was a law passed that allowed us to censor ourselves rather than be shut down. They're calling it the Graphic Arts Act."

"So that's what happened to _Tales from the Crypt_." Crane narrowed his eyes. "This means war. And of course, people like Cobblepot and Luthor will be sniveling at the censors' feet. As for me, I'd rather die. It was bad enough to pull the comics I like off the shelves, and putting who knows how many people out of work, but once you mess with my job, you mess with me."

"To be fair, they're A-listers. They're much more on the radar than either of us. I just think this is silly." Harvey rolled his eyes. "Did you hear the allegations they're making against Dick and Bruce? Unbelievable."

"I'll have to do some research into this myself," Crane remarked, his voice quiet. "Know your enemy and all. Such a low psychological tactic, too - think of the children, always the children. The children couldn't care less. They can handle darker stuff more easily than people think. It's the adults who are getting up in arms about this."

Harvey nodded grimly, passing Crane a thin, paperback yellow handbook titled _The Graphic Arts Act And You_. "I agree with you, Jon, but I'm afraid it's not our decision. The directors and the producers already agreed to the concessions in exchange for us staying open."

"What kind of concessions?" asked Crane, that sick feeling in his stomach coming back as he flipped through the manual's pages.

"The usual: the criminal (that is, us) always has to be caught at the end, there's to be no talk of 'horror' or 'terror' - that's what got the ones you like so much - less violence, no guns, and all vampires, zombies and werewolves are to be fired immediately." Jonathan scanned the crowd for the Mad Monk, who he knew was a vampire. He stood off to the corner, clutching a white slip and looking very sorry for himself. Leaving Harvey behind, he joined the hunched red-robed figure.

"Look, Monk, I'm sure things'll be all right. This can't last forever. I'll make sure of that."

"No one is firing you, Crane. All you have to do is sign the paper and agree to the Act's terms. I'll be all right. Have a spare job at Halloween parties and the like. It's been a real pleasure knowing you, Jonathan Crane. I only wish the best of luck to you, old friend."

Crane managed a twisted, sarcastic smile. His voice wasn't angry or even bitter. Instead it was miserable and hopeless, as if he'd already given up. "See you on the unemployment line."

* * *

Jonathan Crane wandered back to the studio cafeteria, _The Graphic Arts Act And You_ under one arm. He felt positively miserable. He ordered himself a cup of coffee before finding himself a chair and reading the new handbook. So much for his career. So much for his fear gas. Typical. Thirteen years of loyal service and he would be thrown out like garbage. It just had to be when he'd figured out how to be scary again that they did this to him. A small part of him thought of the unemployed actors, too - he'd never known Monk very well, but for the vampire to lose his job to something so petty was ridiculous.

When the waitress handed him his drink, the coffee disappeared down his throat without much thought. His main focus was on the manual. Just reading it made him angry. If they were going to force this on everyone, they wouldn't get Jonathan Crane. He wasn't going to give up over this. He wasn't sure what he'd do or how, but someone had to take a stand. What the Graphic Arts Act was doing was wrong. Stupid and wrong. He had the ghost of a plan forming, but he needed help, and so had set a trap.

When the familiar black shadow swooped down, wings beating, Jonathan was ready for it. In a single swift movement, Crawson found that Jonathan Crane, grinning, held him by the neck.

"Let go of me, ya lummox! Yer chokin' me!"

"And why should I do that?" Crane hissed smoothly, loosening his grip a little. "Not one to get got, eh, Crawson? Looks like the Scarecrow did his job after all."

"Please tell me they don't eat crows in the South. I taste awful! All skin and bones! Help! Help!"

Crane smiled ghoulishly and licked his lips, knowing how to get at the crow now. "Ah, yes, as a matter of fact we do. Delicious if you add a little spice to cover up the flavor, and you have to make sure to pick out all those tiny little bones."

Crawson gave an anxious grin. "Now, Jonny, let's be reasonable 'ere. We're old pals. We can talk this out. Don't look at me that way!"

Crane shook Crawson a little to shut him up. "You're pathetic. Now, then. I'll let you go if you do me a couple of favors. First, never tease me again, or I won't be as easy on you the next time. Secondly, I'll need someone to help me carry a few messages. Can you do that?"

Crawson nodded as best he could, managing a strangled "Uh-huh. Deal."

"Thirdly, learn how to keep that beak of yours shut. I'll need you to look a bit more impressive if you're going to be working for me."

"I'll give it a shot," choked Crawson. "Anythin' else, Jonny?"

"Yes. 'Crawson' isn't a very threatening name, is it?" Jonathan let go of the bird's neck, and Crawson shakily got to his feet. "How about we shorten it a bit? Yes, I like the sound of that. Craw."


	9. Citizen Crane

**Citizen Crane**

_Where would the merit be if heroes were never afraid?_

_-_Alphonse Daudet_, Tartarin de Tarascon_

* * *

The weekly meeting of the Mad Scientists' Union was an unusually tense one. No one was missing, thankfully. The whole crew was there - Lex Luthor, clad in purple and green, was seated at the head of the table. The lab-coated Matthew Thorne sat at his right, and Karl Hellfern to his left. Crane gave a nervous look to his friend Henry Ross, who tried to offer a cheery smile. Gerard Shugel was on his other side, hands clasped tightly together. None of them looked forward to the subject of the union meeting, Crane in particular. The Graphic Arts Act had come to his studio, but it still had to be enforced. Luthor would be under orders to make sure that everyone in the group agreed to its terms.

"Who's the baldy?" asked Craw, whispering in Jonathan's ear. "Friend of yours?"

"That's Lex Luthor. He works at the studio next door. He's been union president for years now. No one even bothers to run against him any more. He's on the A-list, like Joker back where I come from. I know he's corrupt," Crane spat, "but he's very powerful, and it's my word against his."

"So you don't like 'im?" Craw replied, and Crane cuffed him slightly round the beak.

"Be quiet! Do you want him to hear? He's suspicious enough of me as is, because I'm one of the only people on the union who won't treat him like he's God's gift to comic books. He's an egomaniac and a dirty cheat, and that's all I have to say about it."

"Question answered," snickered Craw with a loud laugh.

"I must remind you, Mr. Crane," Luthor began, noticing the bird, "that pets are not allowed in our building. The bird goes outside."

"I ain't 'is pet!" Craw protested with an angry caw, spreading his wings. "Never was and never will be. I'm a free crow, I am. We're _partners_. Right, Jonny?" Crane didn't answer.

"If he's intelligent, he legally isn't a pet," Thorne pointed out, wringing his fingers.

Luthor glared, Thorne quivering. "Even if he talks, animals aren't allowed indoors without special permission. Mr. Crane, get rid of that disgusting creature at once."

"Sorry, pal," Craw told Jonathan with real regret. "Looks like yer on yer own." He took off and flew out the open door, striking a wing on the way. "Damn hallways." Jonathan was actually somewhat relieved by not having to hear the bird's sarcasm and feel those claws digging into his shoulder. He just wished that Lex hadn't been the one to make Craw go. The entire table was staring at him. He shrank back into his chair, trying to seem inconspicuous.

Lex slammed a gavel on his podium, making Thorne jump. The other mad scientist hurriedly pulled out a small journal to take notes in. An old actor who had been killed off and now worked as Lex's secretary, Thorne was harder to hate than Lex himself, being very agreeable when he wasn't Lex's lackey. He had worked as a doctor before joining the studio crew, giving him a sense of justice. Crane had enjoyed several pleasant conversations and dealings with the old man in the past.

"Right, then. First order, roll call. Gerard Shugel?"

"Here."

"Karl Hellfern?"

"Present and accounted for," said the old supervillain, scratching his beard.

"Jonathan Crane?" Luthor called the name with a hint of acid. Of course Jonathan Crane was there.

"Where else would I be?" Crane retorted, standing up. He didn't bother to listen to the others' names being called - Ross, Thorne, someone he didn't know - and took his seat when ordered to. He found a loose piece of string on his chair and played with it lazily, flipping through his new handbook with more than a little loathing. If he was going to fight the Act and hypocrites like Lex, he had to know the other side's arguments.

The one good thing that Mary Keeny and the rest of his family had given him was a disgust for hypocrisy of all stripes. He knew hypocrites when he saw them. People who were appalled by the idea of killing an unborn baby but were completely fine with leaving said baby in the river to drown. He wasn't the kindest of people, he agreed, but at least he never made any pretensions otherwise.

"Psst," Ross whispered in his ear. "What's the book?"

"That stupid handbook they're making everyone read," Crane said, flashing his copy of _The Graphic Arts Act and You_. _  
_

Ross grimaced, digging in his coat and bringing out his own copy, identical to Crane's. "They gave me one, too. Required reading over the next week or so while they implement the Act. Did you see the Mad Monk this morning?" Crane shook his head. "Well, of course not. He decided to leave honorably last night. Poor chap. He wasn't doing much here, sure, but he was a nice guy. Can't believe they're sacking him, and just for being a vampire. He's not even a dangerous vampire - the blood he needs he gets from the local hospital." Ross looked around to check that Luthor was distracted. "Jonathan, I heard that Cyrus Gold has been let go, too, because he's a zombie. Didn't hear it from me, though. Mum's the word."

"Ahem. Mister Ross, we have important work to do. Mister Crane, do kindly look up. It is very rude to gossip during the meeting." Crane made to get up, but Ross shushed him. He grudgingly returned to his seat, shooting Lex the evil eye. "Now that our last issue is dealt with, we can begin. Do you all have your assigned copies of _The Graphic Arts Act And You_?"

The assembled supervillains muttered and groaned, some angrier than others, but they all drew out their books to show them to Lex.

"Pardon me," began Shugel, "but when I worked for my studio they didn't force us to use these texts. Why do we need them now?"

"Because," Lex snapped, "times change, which is something that you and a few members of this union have trouble grasping. I am relieved, for example, that Mister Crane hasn't burnt his copy yet, or he would be compelled to pay for a new one."

"Times change," Jonathan snorted. "Don't give me that rot. You're a collaborator. Nothing to it."

"I," Lex retorted, "am merely looking out for everyone's best interests - including yours, Crane. Our studios are not required by law to agree to the conditions set by the Comic Trial decision, but there are penalties, and ours has already agreed. According to the conditions of operation under the new rules, anyone who hasn't registered in a select time period - a month, I believe - will be let go. So it's in your favor that I've thought ahead."

"Horsefeathers."

"Language, Mister Crane! Do try and overcome your breeding and that terrible temper you have." Lex turned to Doctor Thorne, hunched at his side. "He might be a problem," he whispered. "When he thinks he's right, he doesn't give up. He's set against this and I'll have to use a different tack on him later." Thorne blinked, startled, but scribbled on his notepad. "You all have a month to agree to the Act's conditions and protect your jobs. Some of your most highly-regarded workmates have already agreed, and more are signing every day. I have the necessary papers for everyone to sign. Now, I know that some of you may disagree with a few of the Act's rules and may need a little gentle nudging to join us."

Ross gave Crane a worried look, but the thin man's expression was stone.

"From now on, membership in the Mad Scientists' Union requires full agreement to the Act and all of its terms. Now, good Dr. Thorne will be passing around forms that you may sign to agree to the Act and keep things the way they are here."

"Tell that to Cyrus and Monk," Crane muttered under his breath.

"What was that?" Luthor asked, and Ross quickly covered for his friend.

"Nothing." As soon as the coast was clear he whispered, "Be more careful, Jonathan."

Some of the members, including Hellfern and Shugel, had sympathies with Crane's point of view, but they didn't dare risk their jobs. They were old and venerable and had to keep up the studio's reputation. Hellfern in particular looked grim as he signed the sheet. Crane looked positively betrayed when he saw his old hero, Gerard Shugel, agree.

The sheet was passed to Ross, who fingered the pen for several moments, eyes flickering from Crane to Lex. On the one hand, he knew that his friend was right about the fact that the Act was wrong, but on the other hand Lex was right, too. Not signing the Act could cause real problems for the studio and risk everyone's livelihoods. He gave Jonathan a sad expression as he signed, not daring to look into his fellow member's eyes.

When the sheet reached him, Jonathan Crane was positively furious and frustrated. Furious with Lex for strong-arming everyone into agreeing to something that many of them disagreed with, and frustrated that his fellow members were too cowardly to stand up to their boss. He grabbed the pen and the sheet of paper, his blood boiling. This guff was what had gotten his beloved horror comics cancelled. To hell with the Graphic Arts Act, and to hell with Lex Luthor.

"Well, Jonathan?" he heard Lex say. "What will you do? There are other people who need to sign."

"Go ahead and do it," whispered Thorne, his voice not without sympathy. "Sometimes we have to make compromises to protect the things we care about. If you cared about the studio -"

"No," Crane hissed, throwing the pen down. Everyone heard it land on the floor. No one spoke.

"What was that you said, Jonathan Crane?" Luthor snapped, his voice not rising a bit. Crane held his ground, the paper held in one whitening hand.

"I said no. I won't agree to the Act."

Lex sighed, shaking his head. "There's always _one_, isn't there? You are aware of what I said, Crane? To keep membership in our union, you need to sign the paper."

"I know. That's why I'm saving you the trouble of ordering me out." Crane drew his membership card out of his coat pocket. "Here. Take it. I'm resigning of my own free will. Kicking me out is unnecessary." Thorne took the slip, giving it a quick glance before Lex grabbed it. As the whole of the Mad Scientists' Union watched in mixed horror and awe, Jonathan tore the sheet into pieces and threw them to the floor before turning and leaving quietly, Craw fluttering to his side with a hoarse greeting.

"Bye, baldy!" the crow cawed, raising a wing in a mock salute as he followed his master out.

The room was silent for a long time afterward. The remaining members exchanged awkward looks. Thorne faced Lex, confused and upset, speaking for all of the members. "With all due respect, Mr. Luthor, was that necessary?"

Lex shrugged nonchalantly. "You heard him. He made his own choice and left of his own free will. I didn't make him do anything. Good riddance, if you ask me. He was always too outspoken. As we were, gentlemen."

* * *

"That went well, didn't it, Jonny?"

"Shut it, Craw." Crane leaned beside his room in the hallway, thrilled by facing Lex Luthor. "I don't need his help, anyway. I can create my own union to fight the Act. If we get enough of a voice, they'll have to hear us out and abolish it. Monk and people like him can have their jobs back. I'll see to that."

Craw perched on his shoulder, digging his claws in a little. "Well, I've 'eard worse ideas, I'll give ya that."

"All I need is people who can help me, who either agree with me already or who would follow me everywhere I went." Crane knocked on the door twice. "And I think I can find a potential member of the Anti-Censorship Coalition very quickly. Jervis! Jervis Tetch!"

"Ya mean the nut with the hat?" Craw cocked his head. "Whatta ya want 'im for? What about yer other friends?"

"I'll find Harvey and Edward later. Jervis is first. He likes me the most."

The door slowly opened and Jervis nervously peeped out, not wearing his hat. He slipped out the door, wearing white gloves stained by machine oil. "Why, hello, Jonny! What are you here for? Heard ya got in a bit of trouble with Lex Luthor. If you ask me, he's a bighead. Don't worry."

Crane coughed. "Actually, Jervis, I've come to ask for your help with something." Craw laughed, throwing back his beak, Jervis noticing him.

"Isn't that old Crawson? What's he doing with you? I thought you two hated each other."

"An alliance. Enemies workin' together fer the common good," Craw said pompously. "'E caught me, fair's fair, and now I'm pledged to 'is service. The name's just Craw now."

"Craw," Jervis repeated, and the crow nodded. "Well, I hope Jonny doesn't bring you inside. I just finished alphabetizing my collection."

"Don't mention it around him at all." Crane hissed a warning. "Talking about it's the best way to make sure he'll do it. Now, to business. Tetch, are you aware of the Graphic Arts Act? Signed any papers recently?"

"You mean that loyalty oath they're passing around? Nope, haven't signed it. 'Course, I guessed you hate it. Heard Monk and a bunch of other old chums of ours lost their jobs to the darned thing."

"Well," Crane began, "I'm forming an anti-censorship group in response to Lex. I'd like to offer you membership - need all the people I can get. You can be my second-in-command. It's your job to spread awareness of us and our activities across the studio, where Lex and all his minions can hear about them. Go to Harvey and Eddie first. Then we'll sniff down some of the actors who lost their jobs."

Craw gave a nervous squawk, jumping on Jonathan's shoulder. "That's a dangerous area of town that they've been chased into. Packs of 'ungry werewolves, zombies, all kinda awful creatures. Just thinking about it makes me feathers stand on end."

"You're forgetting who I am, Craw," Crane replied smugly. "I _am_ the Master of Fear."

"Master of Fear, my tailfeathers. Yer gonna get et, and yer gonna get Jervis and me et, too." With a raucous caw, Craw spread his wings in terror. "I didn't sign up fer this job to get et by werewolves, let me put it that way!"

Crane groaned. "No one's going to get eaten, Craw. Before we go, and it won't be for a while, we'll pack up to defend ourselves. Besides, I still need to try out my fear gas on a living target."

"If we die, I'll blame you," the crow snapped, turning and refusing to speak again.

"Funny fellow," commented Jervis, noting the evil look Craw was shooting Jonathan. "Still a trickster, I see, even if he's wise enough not to bother you any more. How'd you do that?"

"Grabbed him by the neck and threatened to eat him."

"Would you?" Jervis asked, his expresson horrified. As nasty as the bird could be, he was still a fellow actor and intelligent enough that the very idea of eating him bordered on cannibalism.

"Of course not. To begin with," Jonathan spat with disgust, "I don't know where he's been." Craw looked up from his sulk, clearly not sure whether to be insulted or relieved. "Run along and go see Harvey and Eddie. I'll need Harvey's help in particular - he's something of an armchair lawyer and I could use his advice on which angle to prosecute my case with. There's got to be some law this nonsense violates. Firing people just because they happen to be vampires or werewolves is idiotic."

"Not just that," Jervis added worriedly. "I heard entire comics, long-runners, too, have been pulled from the stand because of this, and studios which don't agree boycotted out of business. I can see their intentions, but this has gone out of hand. Someone's got to do something, and it looks like that someone's the three of us."

"Us?" Craw squawked, losing a few feathers.

"Yes. Me, Jonathan, and you. It's our job to deal with the Graphic Arts Act if no one else will. Well, then," Jervis said cheerily, "to battle! Got a plan, Jonny?"

"Of course. First off," Crane said with a smirk, "I'm going to visit the local newspaper business close by. An old friend of mine works there, a Mr. Frank Kendrick. I'm going to pay him a little courtesy call."

* * *

Ever since he'd gotten a new job and a new office at the local paper, things were going a little better for Frank Kendrick. He was able to afford better clothes, for one thing. His old blue jacket was long gone, replaced by something more in line with the fashions of the times. He was able to afford marvellous new things, such as his precious office television. His boss even played golf with him once in a while on the nearby green. He vaguely remembered studio work, but having only one job, and as an extra at that, didn't endear him to it.

Besides, he didn't have very fond memories of most of his coworkers. They were generous people, and he kept in touch with all but one, but they all had their quirks. Herold was a whiner, Dodge was always complaining about the script, and Jonathan... well, Jonathan was _Jonathan_. 'Nuff said. He was just glad to have a steady job and good pay. He slept, head on his desk, partly listening to the jazz music which came out of his radio. It usually helped keep his energy up, but he'd had a busy day.

The last thing he expected was a visitor. But, very rudely, some barbarian came to his door and practically broke it down with knocking. Kendrick, groaning, turned off the radio and blinked the sleep out of his eyes.

"Who is it?" More knocking, and Kendrick began to get angry. "I said, who is it?"

There was silence for a moment. "An old friend," rasped the visitor, pausing. "Now, then, Mr. Kendrick. Neither of us have all day. Do be kind and open the door so I can come in." Kendrick froze, muttering the worst swear word he knew. That was a voice he hadn't heard in thirteen years and had sincerely hoped never to hear again. Still, if his visitor was who he thought he was, making him upset was a risky idea.

"Coming, Mr. Crane." He opened the door and, sure enough, Jonathan Crane came in with a swagger, shutting it behind him. He was older and a little taller, but was as sinister-looking as ever, even out of costume. A large crow was perched on his shoulder, eyeing Kendrick curiously.

"Mr. Kendrick." He laughed, the crow unmistakably joining in. "Why, it's been a long time since I've seen you. I missed you. You might have heard about the trouble my friends and I have been enjoying at our studio. Have you?" Kendrick shook his head. "Well, then, I'll educate you. Comics are being censored, and a lot of horror-themed actors are losing their jobs. The Mad Monk's gone, and I'm sure you met him."

"And where do I come into this?" asked Kendrick, voice shaking. Thirteen years, and he could still barely stand in the presence of Jonathan Crane. Well, how could anyone? The man was a creep. "How the devil did you know where I was?"

"It wasn't exactly hard," Crane told him, skinny arms folded. "If you don't want me to find you and know where you work, you shouldn't put your articles in the paper for anyone to read."

"That's my _job,_" Kendrick protested, and the crow cackled even louder. "I'm a newspaperman these days. It pays the bills. Now tell me what you want or get out."

"Quiet, Craw," Crane warned the bird before returning to Kendrick. "Frank, Frank. Is that any way to talk to an old workmate? I'm here to make a humble request of you, Mr. Kendrick. Pull some strings at the local news show - ideally something with a wide broadcasting range. Do this one last thing for me, and you'll never hear from me or Craw here ever again."

"That's the truth!" cawed the crow, clearly enjoying itself. Kendrick wasn't surprised. He'd seen much stranger things than semi-tame, talking crows.

"You're ruining the atmosphere!" Crane hissed fiercely, but it was the bird he was angry at. "Don't talk! You're not scary in the least when you talk!"

"Sorry, guv," Craw replied with a bow, "but I'm a comedian by nature." Crane muttered something about idiots.

"If," Kendrick said, "I never do have to hear from you again, Mr. Crane, I'll help you just this once. One little favor. For old times' sake."


End file.
